


Desert Mirage

by samchandler1986



Category: GLOW (TV 2017)
Genre: Multi, Multi POV
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-04
Updated: 2018-07-27
Packaged: 2019-06-05 10:11:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 27
Words: 35,285
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15168425
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/samchandler1986/pseuds/samchandler1986
Summary: Making a TV show is one thing. A successful Vegas floor show is quite another...





	1. The Sign

**Ruth**

“Oh, my God. You guys, wake up! You’re missing it!”

Ruth smiles in spite of herself at Melrose’s call to the dozy bus. Sam shifts in his seat, illuminated in flashes of pink and gold from a neon light outside. “You want to switch?”

“Oh, no, it’s fine—”

“You only get to drive in for the first time once,” he says, wincing onto his feet. “Have the window.”

She shifts across obediently, pressing her forehead against the glass. It’s just a city, she wants to say. She remembers her wide-eyed excitement when she first came to Los Angeles; how quickly the scales fell away. 

Melrose hammers against her window. “It’s the sign!” 

“Oh, my God!” howls Jenny, as if they’re encountering some ancient wonder of the world rather than a tacky piece of Googie history.

“It’s smaller than I thought it would be,” she hears herself say. Meaner, somehow, pettier than she intends.

“Mm.” Sam smooths down his moustache. “It was designed by a woman, you know.”

“No. Really?”

“Mm-hm.” He laughs as she twists in her seat, craning back at neon now disappeared into the dark. Perhaps she is predictable. “She did the _Moulin Rouge_ too.”

“In… Paris?”

“No, you idiot. In Vegas. It was the first integrated hotel on the strip. And where they decided to desegregate the whole place in nineteen-sixty.”

She blinks. “Were you there?”

“How old do you think I fuckin’ am?”    

“Um, pass.” She presses her nose back against the glass. “You really like it here, don’t you?”

“Well, you know I like to live a life free from vice and corruption. And Vegas makes that so easy.”

Behind the glass the twinkling neon of the Strip unfolds, the sidewalks thronged with people, an alien world. Exciting and terrifying in equal measure. “Oh boy.” 

 He laughs. “Cheer up, mopey. From tomorrow we’re all going to be far too busy for fun. I promise.”

* * *

There’s a strange school-trip feeling to proceedings as they descend from the bus to gawk at their garish new surroundings. The air is hot, the smell of the city different to the one they’ve left behind. There’s an unfamiliar crawling _energy_ to the place that makes the hair on the back of Ruth’s neck prickle.  

“Don’t let anyone wander off,” Sam says, only re-enforcing the feeling of being back in high school. “I’m going to get the keys.”

“I’ll, uh, come with you,” Bash says quickly.

Debbie raises an immaculate eyebrow. “I guess I will too.”

Sam opens his mouth to object, catches Ruth’s gaze for a second and closes it again. It looks as much a surprise to him as it is to her. He jerks his head towards the silver towers of a casino complex behind. Flashing signs welcome them to _The Oleander_.

Ruth ignores a pang of … something in the pit of her stomach, watching the three of them walk inside. “Shall we get the luggage unloaded?”

Sheila and Carmen, at least, come to her aid.  Carmen winces at the weight of a particularly overstuffed case. “Melrose. How much stuff did you _pack_?”

“The essentials,” she deadpans in reply. “Honestly, you have no idea of the number of costume changes you need here.”

“What? Like in terms of day to night looks?” asks Jenny.

“Dude. It’s always night here. When you’re inside the casinos time just… stops.”

“I’ve been to Vegas before,” says Carmen, shaking her head. “It’s not all about the gambling and showgirls. You can go hiking in Red Rock—”

“Carmen, Carmen. I love you, but you’re such a nerd. This is _Sin City_ , baby! We’re talking all night parties, free flowing booze, drugs, and—”

“And an eight am start tomorrow,” finishes Sam, returned from reception with envelopes in hand.

“Are you kidding?”

“No. Everyone else hear that? Eight. In the Hacienda Room. No exceptions, no excuses. Or, you know, I’ll fire you.” He clears his throat, turning his attention to the envelopes. “Okay, Yo-yo and Arthie, you’re in 307. Cherry and Keith, 308. Carmen and Rhonda, 310.”

There is a collective ripple of shock at that pronouncement, one he carefully ignores as he lists the other room arrangements. Rhonda’s face is unreadable, but Carmen’s is an open book, telling an unfamiliar story of irritation.

“… and Ruth and Sheila 405…”

The stone in her stomach settles slightly. Of course, it would be crazy to think that Debbie would choose to _share_ a room—

“….Debbie and Tammé, 408…”

Another silence, opening up like a black hole in the midst of the women.

“And me and Bash in 507.” Sam takes in the stunned faces and misunderstands. “Yeah, we’re all sharing. It’s not permanent, ladies. Just for the next few days while we sort out logistics. Uh… anyone who wants a tour of the place, come with me now, otherwise… see you at eight. Yeah.”

Ruth shoulders her bag, thinking she will follow Sheila up to their new room—

“Seven, for you,” Sam says quietly, making a play of finding his tattered suitcase in the piles of luggage.

“Why?”

He scowls, like she’s being deliberately obtuse. “Production meeting? The grown-ups need to figure out a plan before we tell the kids what’s what.”

“Oh!”

He rolls his eyes at her breathy lack of subtlety. “Jesus Christ. Keep it down or they’ll all want to come.” 

With that he heads back inside, leaving her with far more to mull over than the surprising sleeping arrangements.

* * *

**Carmen**

“Oh, it’s so nice,” enthuses Rhonda. “So much more space than at the old motel.”

“Uh-huh,” she replies.

“Mattress is good too.” She looks up, smiles. “What? These things are important.”

“It’s not the _mattress_.”

“Oh. Then what?”

Carmen sits down on her own bed, trying to fit words around the lump in her throat. It _is_ a good mattress, firm under the fingertips. “I just… don’t get why you’re here sharing with me.”

“But, we’ve always shared.”

“Yeah, but that was before you were… married.”

“Oh,” says Rhonda again, biting her lip. “Well, Bash and I are taking things slow.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. I mean, I had no idea he had feelings like that.”

“But you did?” The words feel ugly, dripping sarcasm, but she can’t hold them in her mouth.  

For the first time Rhonda’s face falls. “No,” she says. “And I told him that. But… I mean, he’s a sweet guy. And this is Vegas! So, we should at least give things a go, right?”

A number of alternate answers suggest themselves, but eventually Carmen nods. “Right.”

“You’re not… mad are you? I mean, this was kind of your plan.”

Carmen sighs. “I’m not mad. I’m just… a little surprised.”  

Rhonda nods. “It was all very surprising. Look, Melrose and Jenny are sneaking out in ten minutes. I was gonna go with them and see the Strip. You should come—”

“I’ve seen it before. My Dad did a big show one time at the _Alameda_. It’s fine. I can unpack.”

 Rhonda bites her lip, but nods. “Ok. I won’t be out too late, I promise.”

* * *

**Sam**

He avoids his eyes in the bathroom mirror as he dips to the counter top. Just a line of blow, just a little something to take the edge off—

“Are you doing blow?” calls Bash, muffled by the door.

“No,” he calls back, thumbing the last few crumbs into his mouth. He flushes the toilet for good measure.  

“Do you want to?” says Bash, as he shuffles back into the room. “I mean, it worked pretty well for us last year in terms of working out the show.”

“No, I don’t want to.”

“Oh, well, _sorry_ , Mr. Serious—”

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” Bash visibly flinches at the snap, but he doesn’t care. “Why the fuck are we sharing a room? What was that business with the keys all about?”

The whites of Bash’s eyes are showing as the kid tries to find a convincing lie.  “Well, Sam, it’s a delicate situation.”

“No shit.” He thumps down onto his bed, pulling off his boot. “Look, you did her a favour. Good for you. But if you’re not interested in her than just—”

“I am interested,” Bash says stoutly. “But she’s not sure she feels that way about me yet, so we’re taking things slow. Sharing a hotel room in Vegas, Sam… That would not be taking it slow.”

“Hmm,” he says, for want of something better. He pries off his second shoe. “You really like her?”

“Yes.” Bash looks at him over hands clasped almost in prayer. “I really do.”

Sam folds his arms, chewing the inside of his mouth. Rhonda, he remembers, is hardly backwards about coming forwards. And if she can find something to like in the unshaven, coke-dusted collection of bad habits that is Sam Sylvia, it’s strange she’s being so coy with handsome, wealthy Bash. Something about this whole situation is just _off_ and he has a shrewd idea what. But it seems crass, even for him, to remind Bash he’s already had sex with his new wife.

“Bit of a change for you, I’d imagine,” he tries instead.

“What, the hotel?”

“Mm. Compared to that palace on the coast you live in.”

Bash goes very still. “Yes. Yes, I suppose.”

“So, is your butler holding down the fort while you’re out here?” he says, all innocence. “What’s his name again—?”

“Um, no,” blusters Blash, a dark colour flushing boyish cheeks. “I, um. Well. I had to let Florian go.” There’s a burr in his voice, and his hands have unconsciously balled into fists.

“Oh,” says Sam, pretending he doesn’t notice, suspicions confirmed. “Shame.” He settles back onto his bed, fumbling a cigarette out of the carton in his shirt pocket. “Well, don’t let me stop you if you want to go out.”

“Uh, no,” says Bash, “it’s probably better to get some sleep… Can I… Can I have a cigarette please?”

“Sure,” Sam says, tossing the carton over.


	2. Assistant

**Ruth**

“Oh, hey.” Sam is attempting to move chairs around a table one-handed, a lit cigarette in the other. He takes another compulsive drag. “You’re early.” 

“So are you,” she says lightly, moving to help. “Nervous?”

“Yeah, I’m nervous. And Bash snores.”

She wrinkles her nose, half a smile, half a frown. “Is it … weird he’s not sharing with Rhonda?”

“I don’t even want to go there.” He shakes his head. “Do you ever just look at your life sometimes and think: how the _fuck_ did it come to this?”

She smiles, bright enough to soften his scowl at least. “Every day?”

“Yeah, yeah.” He sits down at the table, pulling a sheaf of documents out of his leather portfolio. “You should read this and get any yelling out of the way now.”

She scans through the contract. “ _Assistant_ director?”

“Yeah. It’s about all my ego can stand, and I figured you’d still want to be up on stage.”

She can feel his anger bubbling under, on the knife edge of toxicity. Oh, later he’ll be all self-deprecation and sarcasm but right now there’s something raw and ugly barely contained in his skin. If she objects, she has little doubt he’ll scorch earth. She holds his stare nonetheless, more steel in her spine these days, making her decision.

She nods. “I’ll sign.”

“Well, thank God,” he sneers. “The suspense was fucking killing—”

“Alright—” she starts, raising a suppressive hand, but is cut off by the arrival of Debbie and Bash.

There’s a flicker of surprise that passes across Debbie’s brow, seeing Ruth at the table. Her steel core instantly crumbles; gut clenching like she’s anticipating a physical blow.

Sam’s jaw works back and forth, taking in the moment between them, trying to find a path of least resistance through. “I need an assistant,” he says, “for a show this big. That’s Ruth.”

Debbie nods. Once, straight up and down, and sits. Ruth almost squeaks with relief.

“Excellent,” Bash says, clapping her on the shoulder; all puppyish enthusiasm. “So, what’s the plan?”

“That’s what we’re here to work out,” Sam says wearily. “Cards on the table, I want us to try and get picked up by another network.”

“But we can’t,” says Debbie, eyes narrow. “The contracts are clear—”

“About the existing characters. If we can come up with new ones, I think we have the wiggle room to get a new deal.”

Debbie bites her lip, looking to Ruth for a moment of reassurance. “But the fans are really attached to the ones we already have…”

“I’m not saying ditch them all. But if we can work new and old in together, we can use what we already have and build on it.”

Bash makes a celebratory fist. “It’s a bold move, Sam. I love it.”

He manages not to roll his eyes but only just, Ruth can tell. “There’s also the issue of timing. Shows are ninety minutes, six nights a week. We already broke one wrestler doing just one show a week…”

There is an awkward silence, which Ruth can’t help but rush to fill. “We can keep the matches short but powerful,” she says. “Even alternate them if we have to. Different match-ups of faces and heels depending on the day of the week. And if we put some sketches in between, maybe even some music, I think we can handle it.”

It’s her turn to look back at Debbie now, who is nodding agreement. “We need a better idea of what the competition is doing. We can pastiche the other floor shows like we did television and film. And we need to think about promotion—”

“I’ll talk to Carmen about setting up some local live matches, build a home crowd,” adds Bash.

“Okay. I think we’ve got the bones of something that could actually work here,” Sam agrees. “We need to be ready to pitch to Ray and the other investors by Friday.” 

“That’s tight,” winces Ruth.

“When is it not?” He tugs his shirt down, with the air of a soldier prepping for war. “I need some coffee before the rest of the circus arrives…”

Ruth moves to follow him out of the room, but Debbie catches her sleeve. “Ruth?”

“Hmm?” She really does squeak this time.

“Congratulations. Director… suits you.”

She can’t help but smile; it’s enough work not to let the prickle of grateful tears overflow. “Well, assistant director,” she says, the automatic self-deprecation circuit kicking in—

“You deserve it. You worked really hard. And… I’m glad I’m not the only woman in the room anymore.”

Her eyes are definitely watery now, and she doesn’t care.     

* * *

**Sam**

“Okay, ladies,” he says, taking in the faces of the women sitting in a row before him. Dark circles under the eyes of Melrose, Jenny and Rhonda – predictable. Arthie and Yo-Yo are sitting so close their little fingers are touching, which even he’s prepared to admit is cute. “Here’s what needs to happen. We need to have a bit to show Ray and the investors ready in five days.” He ignores the gasps. “Carmen and Cherry, pull out all the stops. You can pair up who you like, and pitch what you want in here on Wednesday evening.

“Second, we need to have material for in between the matches. We need to know what the competition is doing. In between coming up with your wrestling pitches I want you to get out there and infiltrate the other shows.” The girls are grinning, excited at the prospect “Important point to note: I don’t have any money to buy you fucking tickets. So, do what you gotta do. Beg, lie, borrow; steal if you have to. Just don’t get caught.”

Cherry rolls her eyes at this, but most of the rest of them are exchanging grins. “Okay. Bring those ideas back on Wednesday evening too. We clear?”

“We got it Sam,” says Melrose.

“Great.” He rubs his eyes, his aching sinuses, waiting for them to clear the fuck out. There’s a voice, somewhere in the back of his head, telling him he’s so far out of his depth the fish have lights on their noses. He can shut it up with booze or blow, he supposes, but right now there might just be more important things to do.

He traipses out to the payphone booths near the lobby, puts in the coins and punches in the number.

_Ring-ring. Ring-ring_.

Fuck it. They’re probably out—

“You’re through to Brad and Rosalie, Brad speaking!” chirps the receiver.

“Oh, hey. It’s Sam. I was hoping—”

“To speak to Justine? I’ll go get her!”

There are muffled noises on the other end of the receiver, and then much more clearly Justine’s voice saying: “ _Just go away and let me talk to him in private_!”

“Hey,” he says again.

“Hey.”

“Is he always that fucking chirpy?”

“It’s _relentless_.”

“How you doing?”

“Terrible. How about you?”

“Eh, about the same. How’s school?”

“Try a different question.”

“Finish your screenplay yet?”

“Almost. Finish yours?”

“Way too fucking busy.”

“Can I come out and visit you?” For the first time there’s a catch in her voice.

He has to work hard to keep the same out of his. “Is it the holidays yet?”

“…. If I said yes, would you believe me?”

“Nope.”

She laughs. “Six weeks. But Rosalie still says no.”

“I’ll work on her.”

“How? You don’t even speak to her.”

“I’ll figure something out. Maybe I’ll write her a really nice letter.”

“You could hand her a stone tablet with commandments on it, she’d still say no.”

He chuckles. “Funny.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

“Okay, I’ve gotta go. I need to figure out a new pilot by Friday.”

“Tight.”

“That’s what Ruth said.”

“Did she take the assistant director job?”

“Yup.”

“Good.”

“Speak soon, kid.”

“Bye Sam.”   


	3. Simpatico

**Carmen**

“Are you sure you won’t come with us?” implores Jenny.

“I’m sure,” she replies. “I’m going to watch tapes and break down some more moves for Cherry. I’m fine. _Go_.”

“I feel bad for you,” pouts Melrose, readjusting her bustier. “How do we look?”

“Like the cast of a music video,” Carmen smiles, turning into full blown laughter at Jenny’s appreciative squeak. “Good luck.”

“Oh, Carmen. We’re not going to need luck. Not when we have… these _looks_!”

She shakes her head, listening to them chatter as they head away down the corridor, and loads the first tape into the VCR.

 _Knock-knock_.

“What did you forget—?” she starts, pulling open the door. Rather than her friends she reveals a smiling Bash. “Oh. Um. Rhonda just left.”

“I know, I saw her and the girls just now.”

She folds her arms. “Aren’t you going with them?”

“Oh, no. I’ve seen _Charo_ before. It’s a good act but I’m not sure it’s exactly a fit for _GLOW_.”

“Well, if you’re not here for Rhonda… why are you here?”

He looks perplexed. “To see you. _I_ have tickets for a local wrestling match. I thought you might want to come with me and see the scene.” He takes in her frown. “But I guess… if you’re busy... I can go by myself.”

“No, I—I’ll come,” she says, “I just…” But she can’t get the words out. “Give me two minutes to get changed.”

* * *

It’s well past midnight, but the sidewalks are still thronged. At this time of night the hawkers have changed from pretzel pushers and ticket scalpers to something altogether less seemly. Bash seems not to notice, still enthusing about the match as they walk home. “The way Savage just-just _threw_ down like that. We should get you girls doing that, or something like it.”

She raises her eyebrows, sipping the last of her slushie through a straw. “Well, we can try. It’s not something we can work in by tomorrow though.”

“Oh, I know, I know. Just… thinking long term, you know?” For a moment he seems to lose his thread, expression uncharacteristically melancholic. “Anyway,” he blusters, “do you wanna… get a drink or something before bed?”

She’s frowning again. “No. I’ve got to be up early with Cherry. And, anyway, you’re married now. I’m not sure it’s appropriate.”

“Oh, _pshaw_ ,” he demurs, “we’ve always been friends, Carmen. Marriage doesn’t change that.”

“Maybe not for you.”

He stops, as around them the cavalcade of the night continues, men and women calling out with invitations to titty bars and brothels. “What does _that_ mean?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” she hears herself saying, from a long way away. “That maybe I take the whole ‘wedding vows’ thing a little more seriously than you do?”

“Carmen—”

She’s being ridiculous, she knows, but her temper has broken. “Just, leave me _alone_ , Bash—”

She makes it five pace, before the words seem to rip themselves from his throat. “Florian’s dead.”

“ _What_?” For a moment she thinks he’s telling some kind of sick joke, but his ashen face gives the truth away. “I’m… I’m sorry,” she says, coming back, touching a hand to his shoulder. “What happened?”

He visibly winces. “I mean, I guess—I guess maybe he knew he was sick, and that’s why he left—” He’s unravelling in front of her, hands flapping, chin trembling. “And the last thing I ever said to him is always going to be—”

“Bash,” she says, trying to cut through the rising hysteria. This isn’t the place for a breakdown. “Come with me inside.”

“I don’t want to—Sam’s not—”

“Sam’s out,” she says, praying it’s true. “Let’s get you back to your room. _Now_.”

Something of the school teacher tone cuts through; he nods and lets her shepherd him back inside the relative safety of the casino. 

* * *

If she’d had any expectation of what comforting a friend in grief would be like, it might have been this: _tell me about what happened, here are some tissues; it’s ok to hold my hand._

Instead Bash collapses down onto his bed, coiling into a ball.

“Are you—?” The wail cuts her off. It’s a cry into the night that makes every hair on her body stand on end, something ancient and primal. Wordless but completely understandable, human suffering beyond endurance.

She holds onto his shoulders, like he’s a drowning man she’s keeping just above the waterline. “Just breathe,” she hears herself saying, over and over. To him or to her, she isn’t exactly sure. “Just breathe, Bash. I’m here. Just breathe.”

* * *

“Hey,” Rhonda is reading in bed when she finally returns to their room. “Did you change your mind and go out after all?”

“Uh, there was a wrestling match,” she mumbles. “Did you have… fun?”

“The singing was amazing,” says Rhonda. “We should definitely try and get more of that in the show.” She bites her lip. “Um, are you okay?”

 _No_ , Carmen wants very much to say. Her ears are still ringing with the sound of Bash’s ragged sobs, her stomach churning horribly. She can’t tell his secret, but it feels doubly dishonest to be withholding it from his wife. “I’m fine,” she manages.

Rhonda looks unconvinced. “Well, we should probably get some sleep. Big day tomorrow.”

“Right,” she says, automatically. She dresses for bed in a dream, curling up in the dark and trying not to replay the awful howl in her head.

* * *

**Ruth**

“Okay, okay,” Sam says, rubbing his eyes. “Read out the list to me again.”

“Uh, magic show,” she replies, moving bits of paper on the table into order. “Wild animals. Musical interlude. Burlesque dancing.”

“And the matches?”

“Cherry and Rhonda, Tammé and Debbie, Jenny and Sheila with Dawn and Stacy.” It stings, she can’t lie, but her ankle is still stiff and the weeks away from the ring have put her firmly out of contention for Friday’s demo.

“It’s one am,” Debbie says, the voice of exhausted reason. “Why are we still doing this? We just need to workshop and rehearse it tomorrow.”

Bash, sitting slumped in the corner, raises his head enough to nod agreement. “We can just show Ray the goods,” he agrees, “the story’s not that important.”

“Yes it is,” she says, in perfect unison with Sam.

There is a moment, the kind where everyone has to reprogram their face slightly; where she doesn’t dare meet his eye.

“Oh, Jesus,” Debbie says, not quite _sotto voce_. “Alright, Hemingway and Fitzgerald. Do you think you can play nice long enough to actually write it?”

“We’re fine,” Sam scowls.

“Then I am going to bed. Bash?”

He isn’t listening. “What?”

“You staying?”

“Oh, uh. No. I’ll see you later Sam. Goodnight Ruth.”  

Sam pulls out another cigarette once they are gone. “Hemingway and Fitzgerald ended up as enemies,” he says flatly.

“I know,” she replies, moving the pieces of paper around the table again, as if some magical change of order will unlock the secret to the story of their new _GLOW_. “And so does Debbie.”

“So, what does she mean by—?”

“Look, just, focus,” she says, no time for his petty conflict right now.

“I _am_ focussed!”   

She meets his frown with her own, until the absurdity strikes them both. “She maybe has a point,” Ruth concedes.

He shakes his head. “I like Fitzgerald.”

“ _The Great Gatsby?_ I mean, it’s a classic for a reason.”

“Yeah, but that’s not his best. What’s the one about the old man who ages backwards?”

“I’m not sure… Don’t think I’ve read that one.”

His moustache twitches, amused at how much this admission clearly costs her. “You should, it’s good. Sad.”

“What is it with you and time travel anyway?” she mutters, and then her ears catch up with her mouth. “ _Oh_!”

“Oh?”

“That’s it!”

“ _What’s_ it?”

She gestures to the table. “Time travel!”

Understanding lights in his eyes. “Brittanica,” he says, pointing at her, “invents a time machine…”

“…the girl next door sneaks into the lab....”

“She’s _chased_ in there,” he corrects.

“By bullies!”

He makes a so-so movement with his head. “Eh, maybe. She sets off the machine by accident. She’s pulled back in time—”

“—to the Viking Age!”

“Yes! Then - she’s trying to get home but the machine is broken. Sends her all over time and space. China, America, Russia. Burlesque in the nineteen-hundreds, rock and roll from the nineteen-fifties—”

“—and then she goes into the future!”

“What? Why the future?”

“The Road Warrior,” she says, reverently. “Debbie’s new character.”

“What? From _Wrath of_ _—”_

“Yes, although, _please_ can we give it another name?”    

“Kuntar is fine, thank you,” he says. “What makes you think it’ll work?”

“Debbie went to a men’s match last year. I remember her telling me this guy rode in on a motorcycle to start the match. Think about it, it’ll be like _Mad Max_. We can even film some pieces out in the desert to set the scene before the live match!”

“I’ll have to get hold of camera…”

“We can do that. Bash and Debbie can do that.”

“Alright,” he says. “Alright.” He gestures to the typewriter on the table. “Do you want to type it?”

“Oh,” she says, “I don’t… know how.”

He puts his head on one side, bemused, but sits behind the machine obediently. For a fleeting second, she sees them both in her mind’s eye framed from an outsider’s perspective. A curious reversal of the usual secretary and CEO dynamic she’s used to playing, both on and off the set.

“Interior,” he says, exhilarated now, “Britannica’s laboratory…”


	4. Capisce

**Debbie**

“Are you ready?” Tammé asks, as Ruth nears the end of her final section of narration. It’s a ridiculous monologue, something only Ruth could bring such sincerity to.

“No,” she admits. “I mean, I’m not sure I even trust that ring to stand up. Sam put it together this afternoon with minimal supervision, so…”

“That _is_ worrying.”

She takes a steadying breath. “I’m being silly. It’ll be fine.” She gives Tammé’s hand a quick squeeze. “Let’s blow those lizard-eyed creeps away.”

She’s used to bouncing into the room, brainless and beautiful. But the Road Warrior doesn’t bounce. Doesn’t even saunter. She _stalks_ ; a hunter, a lioness. Heel or face, maybe she’s both. A woman drawn in shades of grey: a woman on the edge. Thank you, Ruth, for finally writing a part that fits.  

“Who _dares_ enter my domain?” booms Tammé. Like she’s always been born for the stage.

“I do,” she says, in a voice of silken rage. The Road Warrior has lost a planet, and Debbie knows exactly what it feels like to see a world collapse in on itself. It’s not acting as much as it’s catharsis. “I’ve come to take my revenge.”

“Foolish girl! All who face me perish. Are you ready to end your life?”

“Oh, I was _born_ ready!”

They lock-up, giving her just enough time to take in four open mouths, Ray and the other backers clearly mesmerised. Behind them Sam is nodding, proud, and Ruth’s face is shining with joy.

“Prepare to die!” yells Tammé, and the universe turns upside down as she starts the suplex, just as they planned.

* * *

“Well,” says Sam, when the room has emptied of everyone but the backers and production team. “What did you think, gentlemen?”

Ray is grinning like a cat that got the cream and his buddies Michael and Frank seem similarly excited. Only tall, lugubrious Nicky remains a question mark in her eyes.

“I told you they were spectacular, didn’t I?” rasps Ray.

“You did,” says Michael. “I’m all in.”

“Me too,” agrees Frank.

As one, the room turns to Nicky. “I… liked it,” he croaks, a cut-price Corleone. "It’s just… it’s very television. I wanna see that it’s _Vegas_. In the final form.”

“Vegas?” pipes Ruth, before Sam or Debbie can stop her.

“Yeah,” says Nicky, turning cold eyes towards her. Something stirs in Debbie’s chest at his barely concealed contempt; she finds herself imagining drop-kicking him across the ring. “You know, it’s cutesy. There’s gotta be more glamour. More of an X rating.”

_Fuck_. Ruth’s completely at sea, but Debbie knows _exactly_ what Nicky’s driving at.

“I dunno, Nick,” hazards Frank. “There’s all this talk of the family friendly market being the next big thing…”

“Fuck that,” shoots back Nick. “I ain’t been told what to do in this town by a bunch of soft-dick yuppies.”

“You’ve seen Sam’s films,” Ray demurs. “X rating won’t be a problem.”

“I’ve not seen his films,” Nick snaps. “All I’ve seen is what we have here today.” He casts a withering glance over Bash, Debbie and the particularly stricken-looking Ruth. “This happy… collaborative little team.”

In a dark way she’s impressed by just how much venom he can pour into such benign little words. She barely hears what follows over the ringing in her ears. A part of her—larger than she’d like—considers bouncing his stupid balding head off the table. How long, she thinks, how many more _years_ of putting up with men like this—?

“Are you this charming with everyone?” Sam, in his most withering tones. “I’m not a moron; I hear what you’re saying. More tits and ass, fine. They’re two-a-penny in this town, always have been. But you don’t have _anything_ like these girls. Wrestling, acting, singing, dancing. They do it all.” He takes a step towards Nick, chin up-thrust, lip curling. “Look, I get that you’re the big dog in this room. I’m not gonna piss up your tree. But you don’t get to disrespect my team _ever_ again. We understand one another?”

The gusty quiet of eight people holding their breath seems to stretch into infinity. Then Nick laughs, a horrible bubbling chuckle that rattles into a cough before too long. “Capisce. Lui è uno di noi, eh?”

“Yeah,” says Sam. “I am.”

Nicky stands. He’s technically smiling, but it’s the kind of grin that usually comes with a fin on top. “Welcome to _The Oleander_ , Mister Sylvia. I look forward to seeing the show for _real_ in three weeks.”

They shake hands, if that term covers two men attempting to squeeze the bone marrow out of each other without wincing, and the backers make their exit. 

There is a long silence, broken predictably by Ruth. “Well,” she says, sounding like she’s trying to convince herself as much as the rest of them. “We’ve got a show…”

“Yeah,” says Sam miserably. “We do.” He shakes his head. “I need a drink.”

“Yeah,” Debbie agrees, running her hand down her chin, her neck. “Me too.”

* * *

**Sam**

He is playing with a set of dog-eared cards at the bar when she finds him again. “Hi, Ruth,” he growls. Less of a greeting, more a verbal warning of his fragile emotional state fuelled by bourbon.

“Can I sit?” she asks primly.

“If I said no would it stop you?” He cuts the deck of cards, not looking at her.

“ _Oo_ -kay—”

He sighs. “Sit. Please.” 

“I told the others,” she says, in that strange reporting-to-teacher voice she uses in these situations. “They’re pleased. Jenny and Melrose are organising a party right now, in fact.”

“Great.”

“You could come.”

He shakes his head. “Not a good idea.” He gives her a hard look. “You might have to choose too, one day. Are you the boss or one of the gang?”

She purses her lips. “Maybe one day. That’s the nice thing about _assistant_ being in my title. Half and half.”

“Mm.” He pushes the pack of cards across the bar to her. She picks them up, splitting them awkwardly. “What are you doing?”

She shrugs. “I’m not very good with shuffling.”

“No kidding.” He takes the deck back, riffles it.

“Show off.”

“C’mon, it’s not hard. Like this. See?”

She has another go, still appalling. “Is this the kind of thing I need to learn to be ‘more Vegas?’” She draws the air quotes with her fingers.

He sighs again. “No.”

“Well, good,” she says, sadly. There’s something else, trapped behind her teeth. He deals her a three card hand while they wait, but she just looks at them like they’re from another planet.

“Is this… poker?”

“Jesus Christ. Yes.” He considers their options. “Want me to teach you?”

“Yes,” she says, staring off into the middle distance. “…I-I don’t mean the cards.”

“I know.”

“I feel like I… fucked up somehow. When Nick was talking.”

“Yeah, you did,” he says and winces. “Sorry. That was…”

“Honest.”  

He rubs his face rather than look at her. “You gave him an in,” he explains. “He got to set the terms.”

She nods. “I’m sorry.”

“It probably doesn’t matter. Guy like that’s a dick anyway.”

“Well, I appreciated you standing up for us.”

“That’s the job too.” He fiddles with the cards. “Sometimes you’ve just got to… be the bigger dick. Protect your vision.”

 She nods again, looking down at the polished wood of the bar. “I really liked the show we pitched today,” she says in a small voice.  

“Yeah, I know. Me too.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. Tits aren’t going to get us back on network television. And _Wrath of Kuntar_ was my best script since _Blood Disco_.”

She makes a face. “Was it?”

“I have it on good authority. Look… I’ll handle the Vegas elements, alright? Cast some show-girls for the nineteen-twenties sequences, some dancers who don’t mind getting their tits out. I’ll figure it out.”

Her mouth turns up at the corner, a tiny bit of humour escaping. “You’ll bear that burden, will you? Casting attractive women to get naked?”

“Yeah,” he laughs, tapping out a cigarette from the carton in his pocket. “I’ll take that one for the team.” He lights up. “You should go. Go join the party before it gets too out of hand.”

“I will." She slips down from the bar stool. "Thank you.”

She's smiling down at him, an expression he can't seem to help but mirror. “Ooh, don’t thank me," his mouth is saying, while a curious lightness takes over his chest, prickling into his limbs. "You know how much work we’re going to have to do? We’re putting on a Vegas floor show in three weeks.”   


	5. The Team

**Sam**

He squints at the spines of the science-fiction section of the book-shop, and takes a step backwards onto the foot of a fellow browser.

“Sorry,” he says, twisting awkwardly to apologise, only to find he’s almost fallen over Ruth.

“Sam?” She looks equally as shocked to see him. “What are you doing… here?”

He scoffs. “Meeting my drug dealer. Why else would I be in a bookshop?”

“Oh,” she says, eyes widening. “Sorry, I didn’t know—”

“I’m joking, Ruth. Joking. I’m here to buy a book. Why are _you_ here?”

Now it’s her turn to look awkward. “Russell’s coming to visit for a couple of days, and Sheila offered to stay with Dawn and Stacy so—”

“Ah, bah-bup,” he babbles. “Don’t need to hear the end of _that_ sentence—"

“ _So,_ as she loves Jean Auel, and I know there’s a new novel out… I thought to say thanks I would buy it for her,” she continues, giving him a disgusted look.

 “Oh.” 

“What are you here to buy?”

She’s attempting to dig them out of this monumentally awkward moment, but with her usual Ruthish instincts only managed to make things worse. He bares his teeth, but the offending book is in his hands so there’s little point trying to lie. “Uh,” he coughs, “actually I was looking for a copy of… of this… For you.”

He shows her the slim volume. _Tales of the Jazz Age_ , by F. Scott Fitzgerald. 

“…Oh.”

“Yup,” he says. There’s no redeeming this cluster-fuck; time to cut and run. “I’ll drop it round… later. _Much_ later. Bye.”

“Bye.”

He’s pretty sure the cashier is laughing at him as she rings up the purchase. “One dollar eighty.”

“Thanks.”

She coughs. “Oh, and um, if you _are_ looking to score weed… I know a guy.”

“Really?” he says, looking around at the dust, books, and more dust. “That’s… that’s a service you offer here?”

“Hey man, just thought you looked like you could do with some help chilling the fuck out.”

 “Thanks. I’m good right now, but if the situation changes I’ll be sure to let you know.”

He steps outside into a blindingly effulgent morning, shaking his head as he lights up a cigarette. He’s never been one to mourn the passing of the time; the past and the present are similarly shitty from where he stands, but being sold weed in the bookstore is a new one, even for him.

He drops the book off in his room—maybe he’ll fucking burn it later in some sort of ceremonial purge of the last of his human feelings—and heads down to room 307.

“Hey,” he says, rapping on the door. "Yo-Yo. You in there?”

“Hey boss,” she says, opening the door. He nods a greeting to Arthie, sitting cross-legged on the bed. “What’s up?”

“Need you for a thing.”

“A wrestling thing? A dancing thing?”

“The second one,” he says cryptically.

“O-kay.” She gives her girlfriend a peck on the cheek goodbye and follows him downstairs to their rehearsal space. “What do you have in mind?”

“I’ve gotta cast a topless burlesque dance troop,” he says. “Value your expertise.”

She grins. “Are you kidding?”

“Nope.”

“What about the others? Don’t they want a say?”

“Debbie feels the process is, I quote, ‘degrading.’ I don’t trust Bash’s opinion on this stuff. And Ruth’s… Ruth’s busy. Besides, I think you’ve got good instincts.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. Sit.” He taps the back of one of the chairs in the audience section of the space. “I’ll go let the first-round in.”

* * *

**Debbie**

Russell is waiting for his baggage at the carousel; presumably he was a passenger on the same flight back from LA. She sighs, but he’s clearly seen her too, and ignoring one another would just be more awkward.

“Hey,” she says, aiming for casual, hitting clipped. “Here for a visit?”

“Yeah,” he says. “Back from one?”

“Yes.”

This might be the limit of what they have to say to one another, and on reflection, she’s fine with that. She gives him a lightning-fast smile. “See you later.”

“Bye,” he says, looking similarly relived.

She hurries through the airport, mercifully managing to avoid the waiting Ruth, and back to the relative safety of her room.

Tammé is reading at the desk. “Good trip?”

“Oh, you know. It’s so good to see him, but then leaving him with Mark and Susan makes me feel like I’m the worst mother in the world… What the fuck am I even doing here? I should… get a job near them, so I can see him every day—”

“Or that no good cheating idiot should move closer to here, since he’s the one that called time on things in the first place.”

Debbie lets out a breath. “… Thank you. Ugh, and Russell was on the flight back, just to add insult to injury.”

“Ruth’s boyfriend? I thought he seemed pretty sweet.”

She sighs. “Probably he is. Probably they deserve each other. I’m just a terrible person who can’t stand to see them so fucking happy when I feel like the sky’s falling in.”

“Oh, you mean you’re a person?”

She laughs. “When did you get to be so wise? Is it like, a mom upgrade I can apply for?”

“Uh-huh, it happens right about when they turn thirteen and start questioning everything you’ve ever taught them.”

“Really? But Ernest is so good.”

“He is… But there’s no avoiding that part when they start carving out their own space in the world.”

“Oh, God, I’ll never be ready.”

“Yes, you will.” She closes her book. “You need a night out.”

“Oh, I don’t think—”

“I know, but I’m telling you. Mama needs to have some fun. There’s a singles night tonight at the _Alameda._ Don’t make a face! They can be fun. Especially if you go as a team.”

Debbie screws up her face, makes her decision. “You want me on your team?”

“Absolutely.”

* * *

“Oh, God,” she says, taking in the room. “This is so much worse than I ever imagined. They’re all so _old_.” She takes a closer look. “Except for those three at the bar who don’t look old enough to be drinking.”

“Just… be calm,” Tammé counsels. “We’re early. Other fish swim in later. Better fish.”

 “… Then why are we here now?”

Tammé raises an eyebrow. “You want to pay for your own drinks?”

A bit of humour hisses between her teeth. “No.”

“Well, then let’s go talk to those guys over there.”

“There’s no _way_ they don’t work in accountancy.”

“I’ll take those odds…”

* * *

Robert and John do indeed work in accountancy, which they seem to view as a viable proxy for a personality. Half an hour of their company drives Debbie back to the bar, and her third shot of tequila in twenty minutes. She’s savouring the warmth in the back of her throat when the night goes from bad to worse.

“So,” says a familiar voice, “if I promise to never, _ever_ tell anyone you were here, will you do the same for me?”

 _Fuck_. She turns around and confronts the full horror of the situation. “Sam.”

“Hi.”

“Tammé invited me,” she starts.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m here too. There’s no need to make excuses.”

She opens and closes her mouth a few times, but there’s no escape. “Um, can I get another shot?” she says to the barman.

“Two,” corrects Sam.

They turn out to face the room, drain their glasses wordlessly.

“How did the casting go today?” she says, when the silence becomes too awkward to bear.

“Fine.”

“That’s good.”

“Yep.” He glances back over his shoulder. “Can I get another?”

“So,” she says, as he finishes his second drink, “why are… you… here?”

“This is a singles night,” he says, frowning. “I am single. Strange as that may seem.”

“No, I just mean… the women here don’t seem like your usual type.”

“What type is that?” Suddenly sharp. She can feel a hole opening up under her feet.

“Actress? Model?”

He reaches into his pocket for his cigarettes. “At this point I’ll take… uh, upright and interested.”  

She laughs at that, in spite of herself. Maybe it’s the tequila taking effect. “I have… no idea why I’m doing this,” she admits. “It’s hateful and I feel… a deep sense of shame.”  

He shakes his head, passing her a cigarette. “Jesus Christ. Join the fucking club. Come on. Let’s go rescue Tammé and go somewhere a bit more lively.”  

* * *

**Ruth**

“So, this is home now?” says Russell, as they enter the _Oleander_ arm in arm. It’s nearly one am, but the tables are still busy with gamblers.

“Uh-huh.”

“You won any money at the high stakes tables yet?” he teases.

“I can’t even play poker,” she admits. “Sam offered to teach me, but…”

“I can teach you,” he says, “My Uncle taught me.”

“I bet you’re good,” she smiles.

“Ah, I’m okay...”

She smiles, taking his hand and swinging it happily back and forth. A cheer makes her look up from their entwined fingers. A winner at one of the tables, she’s come to learn.

Her mouth drops open.

“Isn’t that—?”

“Sam and Debbie,” she confirms. “… and Tammé.”

Sam is raking a sizeable pile of chips across the table. “Oh, hey lovebirds,” he says, as they approach. “Having fun?” He’s in his shirt sleeves and a flower garland, reeking of whiskey. For some unfathomable reason Debbie is wearing his horrible brown blazer and a feather boa, while Tammé has acquired a plastic crown not dissimilar to that of the _GLOW_ champion.

“We saw Siegfried and Roy,” she says. “It was good.”

Tammé is counting chips. “We just made four hundred dollars!” she yelps. Debbie raises her fists in jubilant celebration.

“Told ya I was good.”

“Seems like you guys have had a good night?” she says.

“Bad start,” Debbie laughs. “But it got better.”

Ruth swallows. It would be madness to be jealous. “Well, I guess we’ll see you tomorrow…”

“Are they like that… every night?” asks Russell as they leave the casino floor.

“I… don’t know,” she realises.   


	6. Weakness

**Rhonda**

“It’s not proper tea, though.”

“I mean, it’s Lipton,” Bash says, “I thought—”

“No, it’s just not the same. Honestly, it doesn’t matter. I don’t care. But, like, tea in England is not like this. And you drink it all the time. You don’t just have it with sandwiches” She considers this. “I mean you can. If that’s what you’re having for lunch. But you drink it like… Coke or something.”

He’s smiling at her, chin in hand. Amused. Fond, even. But there’s something _missing_ , some warmth in his eyes. It twists in her stomach. None of it matters, she wants to say. The wedding was for a green card, after all, divorce is easy…

“I should get going,” he says, from a million miles away. “Production team meeting—”

“I don’t think it’s going to happen.”

“What? Why?”

She angles her head over to the other side of the breakfast bar. Sam and Debbie are sitting together, unusually. The latter has abandoned any pretence, nursing a small glass of orange juice, wearing her sunglasses inside. Sam is coping better with ambient light, but his birds-nest hair and unshaven face tell their own story. “I think they went out last night,” she says.

“Well, Ruth—”

“She’s with Russell.” She gives him a small smile. “We could spend some more time together? Maybe go down to the museum you were talking about.”

For a brief second the mask slips, a flash of frustration. But it’s momentary, replaced with another insipid smile in an instant. “Sure. Let’s go do that.”

His hand, when he takes hers, is sweating.

* * *

**Carmen**

She hits the mat hard, harder than she should. Winces at the stinging pain in her shoulder.

Cherry raises her eyebrows. “Wanna talk about it?” she says, offering a hand to help her up.

“It’s fine.”

The rattling _crash_ of the ring reverberates as they repeat the drop. This time she doesn’t place her knee quite right, making her yelp.

“Carmen!” Cherry says, alarmed. “Stop.”

“No, I—”

“You’re going to hurt yourself. And we need you. Stop. Talk to me.”

“I… can’t,” she says miserably, picking herself up again.

“Uh-uh,” Cherry says, folding her arms. “Is this about Bash and Rhonda?”

“What?” She glances nervously, pointlessly, around the empty rehearsal room. “No.”

“Come on! Don’t try to pull this shit with me. I know you better. What’s going on?”

“Nothing!”

“Carmen, come on. Otherwise I’m going to send you out for the afternoon.”

“Well, you may as well,” she hears herself return hotly. “As everyone else is so busy rehearsing!”

“Oh, don’t you think I’m going to let them get away with it,” Cherry smiles, dangerous. “But that’s me. I’m mean. You’re sweet. It’s not like you to get wound up by this sort of thing.”

“It’s… not that,” she says. “I just…” The words crowd in her throat, but she trusts Cherry when it comes right down to it, and she's tired of wrestling these feelings on her own. “I know he’s not in love with Rhonda,” she continues, voice low. “And I guess I don’t understand what this whole marriage pretence is about. From _either_ of them.”

Cherry sits on the edge of the ring and pats the mat for Carmen to do the same. “But why do you care?”

“What?”

“Why do you care? Why is it your problem?”  

“Well—it’s—they’re—” She stares into Cherry’s knowing gaze. “They’re my friends,” she tries. “I don’t want to see them hurt each other.”

Cherry raises her eyebrows, unconvinced.

She sighs. “I don’t know. Maybe I’m just tired of being taken for granted by everyone all the time. You know? All the time it’s just: choreograph the match Carmen. Go work with Cherry and make it happen. It’s not like I’m being paid to stunt co-ordinate. I just do it because it’s what everyone expects.”

“And because you love it. And me, of course.”  

“Yeah.” She smiles in spite of herself. “I guess I do.”  

“Look, speak to Sam. If you threaten to stop co-ordinating, he’ll pay up. But if you’re going to wait around for him, or Bash or Rhonda, to notice that you’re hurting; you’re going to be waiting a long time.”

“How do you do it?”

“I found someone who’s got my back,” Cherry replies. “But guess what?” She claps Carmen’s shoulder, smiling. “You have too.”

“Really?”

“ _Yes_. Do you know how much I enjoy working with someone as dedicated as you?”

She can’t help it, she’s smiling again. “Maybe.”   

“Damn straight! Right. Up. We’re nailing this move, and then we’re going to go find the others and make a fucking wrestling show.”

* * *

**Sam**

“Mr Sylvia?”

He squints through bloodshot eyes. He doesn’t like ‘Mister’; nothing good ever follows a ‘Mister.’

The attractive receptionist waves at him. He thinks her name might be Callie, or Cassie, or… something. “Oh, hey,” he hears himself say, all faux-casual, while the cynical core of his brain wonders just who the fuck he’s trying to impress.

“You have a package,” says the girl.

“What?”

“A parcel? In the mail.”

“Oh.”

“You need to sign for it.”

“Can I see it first?”

She indicates the oblong on the table. “It’s right there.”

Brown envelopes are up there with ‘Mister Sylvia’ when it comes to his incoming shitstorm radar, but there’s not a lot he can do. He scrawls his signature on the form and picks up the worryingly heavy envelope, carries it back to his room. He leaves it on his bed, a cuckoo egg in the nest, intending to fortify himself with a bit of magic powder in the bathroom—

The bindle is empty. He doesn’t remember finishing it, but then he doesn’t remember where the fuck he acquired a flower garland, or the nasty bruise across the middle of his back. He smokes a cigarette instead, trying not to look at the old man in the mirror hiding from his ex-wife’s latest fucking _scheme_ —

Anger, boiling up, burning away the fear. He stalks back into the bedroom and turns over the package. Written in Sharpie on the back is a return address, the A turned into a familiar anarchist symbol.

The package is from Justine. Relief almost overwhelms him.

He slits it open with care. Rather than legal papers, it’s a spiral bound manuscript with a yellow post-it stuck to the front. He pulls this off first. She has written in black capitals: FINISH YOURS, IDIOT. He chuckles, shoulders shaking, until by inches his laughter turns into a sob—

 _“Fuck!”_ He twists his hands into his hair, screws up his face. Breathing like he’s been running, hard and fast; fighting the overwhelming tide of grief rising up in his chest. “Fuck. _Fuck_!” He finds anger again, at himself, at this… weakness. It’s always the easiest emotion, pushing away the raw misery of loss. “Get it together, man.”

He lights another cigarette, shaking his head at himself. Yeah, he’s hungover; tired and emotional as the euphemism goes. No excuse for wailing like a fucking woman. He pulls the manuscript over onto his lap and reads:

**“Sophie”**

_Screenplay by Justine V. Biagi_

_Story by Sam Sylvia_

  1. EXT. The LAKEHOUSE – EARLY EVENING.



A woman – LAURA – is watching the road to the house. A CAR approaches, inside are ISABELLA, CHARLIE and SAM. The CAR stops at the end of the track ...


	7. An Answer

**Ruth**

“You know what you said - about looking at your life sometimes and thinking… how the _fuck_?” she says.

“Uh-huh.”  

“I think this is one of those moments for me.”

On stage the dancing girls are already down to less than what Ruth considers the bare essentials, and there’s still some way to go.

“Yeah, me too.”

She risks looking at him. Up until now she’s been keeping her eyes front and centre, because somehow watching the dancers undress is _les_ s awkward than cataloguing Sam’s reaction to it. He seems thoroughly miserable, which comes as something of a surprise.

“Really?”

“Yeah. I’m watching eight beautiful women undress in front of me and thinking it looks terrible.”

She snorts. “I mean, _they_ look fine.”

“Don’t. It doesn’t fit. Tonally, it’s just… all wrong. Fuck.”

There’s something about the sloping line of his shoulders, the droop of his moustache, that betrays more than just a preoccupation with the current half-naked predicament. Part of her wants to ask, another part of her is terrified that _she_ might be the cause.  

“Well, for the first time in my life I’m glad _that’s_ over,” he mutters, as the dancers finish and clear the stage. Britannica and Liberty Belle enter, dressed as USO girls for the sketch setting up the Axis versus Allies fight in 1939 that closes the first half.  He shakes his head again. “Lighting’s wrong.”

“More spot on Liberty?”

“Yeah.”

She makes another note on her script.  

“Match looks good though.”

“Mm-hm,” she says. “Well, Debbie’s been… working really hard.”

He gives her a sharp look for the uncharacteristic piece of sarcasm. “I didn’t see so much of you around these past few days either.”

She swallows. “Sorry. I didn’t mean… I’m sorry.”

He bristles, but lights a cigarette rather than take out more of his temper on her. “I’m going to have to deal with this Nicky issue,” he says after a while. “We can’t be kids TV one minute and titty bar the next.”

“What will you do?”

“Not a fucking clue.”

“Sam,” she says, because she can’t ignore the undercurrent any longer, “are you okay? I mean, apart from _this_.” She waves her hands at the ring. “I know the show needs some work, but you seem… well, like there’s more going on.”

She can practically see his hackles rise, for all the world like an angry cat. She expects a vengeful hiss. “I, uh… There’s something I could do with a second opinion on. A script.”

“Yours?” she says, taken aback.

“No. Not… exactly.”

“Well, I’ll look over anything you need—”

“Yeah, yeah, I know. It’s personal.”

“More personal than _Mothers and_ _—_? _”_

“Yeah. Okay? So, it has to stay between you and me. You know? I don’t want _lover boy_ knowing—”

“I won’t say anything,” she says, before he can pour more scorn on Russell. “Totally confidential.”  

He nods, still seeming wary.

“Do you want me to… see it now?”

“No, no. It’s long. And we’ve got plenty of notes to give.” He sighs. “Come on. Time to be the boss.”

* * *

**Sam**

“Oh, fuck,” he says, stubbing out his cigarette when he sees her across the breakfast bar, Justine’s manuscript in her arms. Part of him still regrets handing over the work, outvoted by the rest that knows Ruth’s opinion on this is critical.

“Morning,” she says, sitting down at his table. She puts down the script carefully, like one would an old, rare book. “I have a few questions.”

He rolls his eyes. “When do you not?”

“Who wrote this? I recognise your handwriting from the notes, and some of the dialogue sounds like you… But with a-an _optimism_ _—_

He pushes the front cover he removed before handover across the table.

“ _Oh_!” Her eyes seem to inflate. “Oh, that makes sense.” She looks up, and for a moment he has strangest feeling he’s drowning in cornflower blue. "Was this… did this really _happen_?”

He hunches his shoulders. “No. Well, kind of. I mean, Sophie was real. She really did marry Charlie.” He swallows. “… who was my brother.” He taps his fingers on the table, discomforted, but she’s patient. “I just, showed her some old photographs, you know? Explained who the people were, what happened to them. I had no idea…”

“She’d turn it into a masterpiece?”  

“It _is_ , isn’t it?”

She nods. “I mean, it makes sense. She’s telling the story from Sophie’s point of view, they’re the same age. And the loss of the father that you—” She reads his expression and changes her words accordingly. “…that the Sam character is dealing with I guess has a lot of resonance with what she’s going through right now. But, I agree with your edits too. The dream sequence is a detraction from the central drama and Charlie _is_ underwritten.” She folds her hands, resting her chin on her fingers. “Are you… going to try and make it?”

“I don’t know,” he lies. Her smile says she sees right through him, and he sighs deeply. “Yeah. Yeah, I guess I am. What?” She looks like a kid at Christmas.

“No, I just. I think it’s great. Who’d have thought it would work out this way, when Justine first came to find you?”

“Well, there’s still the issue that Rosalie has fucking banned her from coming out here to see me.”

“Really?”

He indicates their surrounds. “I mean, wouldn’t you?”

“Well, then, you’ll have to go to them—”

“No.” He shakes his head.

“Don’t be so stubborn—”

“I _am_ stubborn.” He folds his arms. “It’s part of the charm.”

“Right,” she scoffs, “as opposed to the _ego_.”

“Alright, alright…”

She thinks about it. “Maybe there’s a middle ground? Maybe you could go back to LA for a week. You know, scout locations, talk to studios. Even do some casting! And Justine could stay at your house rather than come all the way to Vegas.”    

“Nah,” he says, even as his heart lifts, knowing that once again Ruth has given him his answer.


	8. Procurement

**Debbie**

There’s always something odd about a dress rehearsal performed to empty chairs; her final line is ecstatic and should be greeted with cheers and applause. Sam claps, as loud as he can, and Bash is whooping, but the sound is suffocated by the space they’re trying to fill.

She keeps her smile fixed in place, still breathing hard. “Do you think they liked it? Tammé whispers, picking up on the flat energy.

“They better have,” she returns, still more than half the Road Warrior.

She ducks under the ropes, bouncing across to where the backers have watched their show in a huddle. Ruth, lurking in the shadows stage right, runs across to join her. Zoya’s hair is still piled on top of her head.

Debbie catches her hand instinctively, squeezes it, like the events of the last year never happened and they are friends like they used to be. Maybe, if she can bear to do this enough, they will be. “You were amazing,” she says.

Ruth grins back. “You too.”

“You ready for this?”

“Yes.”

“Ladies,” says Ray, “fantastic show. Really, really great.”

“Well, that’s good to hear,” Debbie returns, catching Sam’s eyes for a second behind their main backer. _On a knife edge_ , she understands. She turns to beam at Michael and Frank. “I hope you gentlemen also enjoyed it?”

“We did,” says Michael.

“Well, most of it,” Frank adds, the bolder of the two.

Nicky sighs. “Are we having this conversation again, gentlemen?”

Franks shrugs. “You got to admit, the showgirl bits were… different.”

“It’s a fun show,” Michael says. “Let it be fun. Like Sam said before, this is a tits and ass town. The big bucks are rolling in for those who do something a bit different. And families are _money_ , Nicky. Four tickets rather than two. Less fighting, less clean up.”

“This isn’t fucking Disneyland,” Nick spits back. “This is Vegas.”

“Look,” says Sam. “Why can’t it be both? You make the pie bigger, even the same slice means more, you know? No-one’s saying this place should go squeaky clean, least of all me. I miss the old town too—”

“You’re a fucking tourist,” Nick snaps. “You don’t know the first thing about _real_ Vegas—”

“But so are most of your audience,” Bash points out.  

“Nicky, Nicky,” says Frank. “I hate to go with weight of numbers here. But it’s three to one—”

“ _Fuck_. _You_.” The old man stands so violently his chair falls back onto the floor. Debbie has just enough presence of mind to twitch Ruth out of range, before she’s knocked clean off her feet by his exit.

“Ah, good riddance,” says Michael, with a wave of his hand. “Now. Shall we talk contracts?”

 

* * *

 

 

 

She finds Sam on the edge of the dancefloor in the _Oleander’s_ nightclub, having to shout to make herself heard over the wailing of Abba’s _Dancing Queen_. “You’re not going to demonstrate your disco talents again?”

“What?”

“You don’t remember?”

“Remember what?”

“Winning that flower garland?”

“Fuck. No.” He points at her, faux-stern. “And neither do you, you hear? I’ve got a reputation to maintain.”

She laughs. “Secret’s safe.”

They take in the scene before them for a long moment, comfortable enough in one another’s silence. She wonders when _that_ happened. Ruth is arm in arm with Sheila, spinning in the middle of the dancefloor to a beat probably no one else can hear. Melrose and Rhonda are singing at full volume; Yolanda and Arthie sequestered in a booth off the floor. It’s a party; a full-throated celebration of their success, and neither of them want to spoil it.

He gives her a shrewd sort of look. “Wanna talk?”  

“I dunno, you wanna listen?”

He shrugs. “I’m not dancing.”

It’s not exactly cool outside, but the air is welcome. For her, at least; Sam predictably lights up a cigarette on exit. He offers her a drag.

“No. I… trying to quit again.”

“Hmm.” He twitches his nose. “So. You signed.”

“I did.”

“Regrets?”

“Not exactly.”

He nods, flicking ash from the end of his cigarette. “I get it.”

“You do?”

“Yeah. I mean, it’s not exactly the same, but a pretty big part of my life is happening away from here right now. And I wish it wasn’t.”

She’s not expecting her heart to catch in the back of her throat at his words; eyes suddenly burning with salt. “Actually,” she manages, “I, um, I will…” He passes her the cigarette, and she takes a deep draw, fighting down the tears.  

“You okay?”

“No,” she says, “but I will be.”

“That’s the spirit,” he deadpans back, and they both crack into laughter. “Oh, I should—” he starts, when he has control of himself again.

“Hey! Hey, Sam!”

Across the car park someone is waving at them; tall and teenage-skinny. “You _know_ him?” she asks, sceptical.

He has the decency to look slightly shamefaced. “Only as a procurer of certain items.”

“Oh, I see. Well, don’t let me disrupt the… procurement.”

“I didn’t arrange to meet him tonight,” he says, a frown forming. “Stay here.”

She makes a face at being told what to do, but lets him trot across the car park to talk to his dealer privately—

Two men unfold themselves from a car. Tall, bulky. One of them is carrying a tire iron. Time slows to treacle as they rush him.

The first catches Sam on the shoulder, spinning him around. He’s bright enough to know what’s coming at least, hands already moving to fend off the blow to his head. The second man swings the iron, like a batter in a baseball game, into his unprotected side. She thinks she even hears the _crunch_. Sam goes down, hard, and the man draws back a steel-toe-capped boot—

“ _I’llfucking_ kill _you!_ ”

She isn’t aware of picking up the post that normally holds the velvet rope of the night club queue; of charging over like a bull from Pamplona. She’s only sure of her swing, thumping the metal with every ounce of strength she has across the head of the first attacker; spinning like an avenging angel to catch the second full in the face with a return shot.

“What the _fuck_ —?”

The kid that set Sam up is already running. Tire iron goes down on his knees, screaming, blood fountaining from what is surely a broken nose. He can’t see to run but manages a spirited crawl across the parking lot. Presumably to escape the banshee shrieking into the night: “I’ll _kill_ youfucking _kill_ you!”

It takes a moment for her to realise that it’s her—

“Debbie! Debbie! Oh my God!”

“Help, help! Please, get security!”

Someone’s heard her yell, but she doesn’t dare turn around to see what back-up is arriving. The last man standing stares muzzily at her, eyes full of hate. “Fuck!” he snarls, but he knows it’s over, and bolts after the others.

“Debbie? Debbie? Debbie?”

A pair of hands reaches out and gingerly tugs the bloody post out of her grip. Through the red mist she can see Sheila, never more wolfish than in this moment of silent communication. “You got them,” she says softly.

“Sam? Sam, can you hear me?” Ruth is on her knees next to the remaining, worryingly still body. “Oh, _fuck_ , I think he’s really hurt—”

“Call an ambulance,” she hears herself say, voice calm. Serene almost. She kneels next to Ruth, who is frantically patting Sam’s face.

“ _Fuck_ , I don’t think he’s breathing—”

She remembers those words, from inside her own head, when Randy was tiny. The rise and fall of his chest so delicate she would watch him in his crib, heart in mouth, _so_ scared—

She puts her cheek next to Sam’s mouth, feels the air stir. “He’s breathing,” she says. “Ruth, he’s breathing.” Her fingers find his wrist. She remembers how to take a pulse from phys. ed, years ago; finds one beating strong. “He’s alive.”

“Oh, God, what _happened_?”

“Nicky,” she says, with absolute certainty.   


	9. Keep Talking

**Ruth**

“You should go with him,” she says, as the EMTs load Sam into the ambulance. Almost calm, like they’re deciding who should break a lock-up in the ring. It’s cowardice, but a bird has taken the place of her heart in her chest; a sense that the universe is flapping loose. More than anything she wants to go back to her room and shut the door and pretend that none of this is happening.

“I, uh, I think I have to go with the other guys,” Debbie says carefully, indicating the second set of flashing lights that has pulled into the parking lot.

Ruth is aghast as the policemen unfold from their car. “But you were _defending_ him. They can’t—”

“Ruth.” Debbie doesn’t shout her name, doesn’t have to; there’s a harmonic that bounces down to the base of her spine making her still and listen. “Go with him. I’ll be fine. He’ll be fine. But you should go now.”

“Okay,” she says, like it’s reflexive, and maybe it is. Debbie gives an order and Ruth leaps to obey. For the first time in a long while it’s almost a relief, cutting through the woolly panic clouding her brain. “I’ll - we’ll see you soon.”

“Yeah,” Debbie says, still eerily calm. “See you both soon.”  

She pulls herself up into the back of the ambulance. There’s a rhythm to the work of the EMTs she half recognises, a back and forth; an ease of moving in the cramped space that’s almost like wrestling. Sam’s shirt is cut away, and she winces at the sight of livid purple bruises already flowered.

“Got Grey-Turner’s sign.”

“Uh-huh. Pulse is going thready.”

The strange ripping sound of Velcro, as they apply the blood-pressure cuff. “BP’s down to ninety over seventy. UMC?”

A nod, and the ambulance is moving, siren screaming. “What’s his name?”

“Uh, Sam,” she hears herself saying.

“Okay, Sam,” says the paramedic, like they’re just chatting in line for a soda. “My name’s Robin and the guy up front is Paulo. Looks like you’ve taken quite a punch so I’m going to give you some fluids. Sharp scratch—” Ruth turns away as he inserts the needle. “Good job.” He glances back at corpse-pale Ruth. “You guys partying together?”

“We-we just got a show,” she says. Her lips feel strangely numb. “We were celebrating.”

“A show, huh? Like what?”

 _Why are you doing this?_ She almost says the words out loud, but realises he’s managing her shock as much as he is Sam’s wounds. “Wrestling,” she says, and coughs, pulling herself together. “We’re the Gorgeous Ladies of Wrestling and Sam’s our director.”

“Whoo, boy,” Robin laughs, as if Sam can hear. “What a job, eh?” He inflates the pressure cuff again, smiling at the change in numbers. “ _That’s_ what I like to see. Good man, Sam.” He turns his smile to her worried face. “What’s your name?”

“Ruth.”

“Well, Ruth, in about a minute we’ll be at UMC. We’re not going to make Sam wait in the queue this evening since we like you both so much. Just follow him inside. You’re doing a great job.”

“Thank you,” she says, pathetically grateful for the next set of instructions.

“No problem. Okay, here we go. Take care of yourself Ruth, nice to meet you Sam—”

And on they go, inside the hospital.

* * *

Eleven rings. Twelve. She should probably put down the receiver, but she has no idea what she’ll do next, so it’s better to let it ring on and on—

“Someone better _fucking_ be dying. It’s two am.”

“Rosalie, it’s Ruth,” she says into the handset. Perhaps she doesn’t remember who she is. “Uh, Ruth Wilder? I’m - I’m with Sam. He… got beaten up and we’re in the hospital—”

“Oh, _God_. I didn’t actually mean—"

“He might need to go in for surgery,” she continues. “They’re not sure yet, but he might. They said family are welcome … and I thought Justine should know. Uh, he’s in UMC. In Vegas.”

There is a long silence, broken only by the crackle of the line. “Yeah,” Rosalie says at last. “I know he’s in Vegas. Thanks, Ruth.”

She hangs up the ‘phone.

Ruth flinches at the tone like she’s been slapped, holding onto the receiver for far longer than is sensible. She doesn’t want to go back to the almost empty room. Doesn’t want to look at his blazer, slung over the back of the chair, his glasses folded on the side table. One of the lenses is shattered, splattered with blood—

“Ruth?”

The young doctor’s voice shakes her out of her stupor. “Uh, yeah?”

“Hi. Dr Malloy. You came in the ambulance with Mr Sylvia?”

“Sam,” she says. “He hates Mr…” She realises how stupid her words sound. “Uh, yeah. I came with him.”

“Okay. Well, I have good news. The CT scan showed the internal bleeding is limited. He’ll need to stay in for observation for a little while, and for some pain relief for the broken ribs. But we should be able to avoid surgery.”

She lets out a breath she didn’t know she was holding. “Oh, thank God.”

“We’re transferring him up to the ward now. You’re welcome to go up there and sit with him, or if you need to go home you can call—”

“I’ll go up.”

* * *

To her surprise he’s conscious, propped upright in the bed. There’s something strangely vulnerable about him without his glasses, like he’s lost his armour somehow.  

“Hey,” she says, smiling. “You’re awake. How’re you feeling?”

“Someone hit me with tire iron,” he rasps. “How’d you think?”

She laughs, a little too long, but it’s a relief to know he’s still there. “Shitty?”

“They won’t let me have anymore painkillers.” His hand finds hers by instinct as she takes the seat next to the bed, gripping her fingers tightly.

“Okay, okay,” she says, squeezing back. “Distractions—”

“Is Debbie okay?”

She blinks. “Yeah. Yeah, she’s fine.” She opens and closes her mouth a few times. “Well, she’s being interviewed by the police but—”

“ _What_?” The exclamation makes him moan with pain.

“Oh, God, I’m sorry. Can I—?”

“Just, keep talking, keep talking.”

“Yes, um.” She tries to find her thread. “She beat those guys with a fence post. Saved you.”

“You’re kidding?”

“No. It was like… something from one of your films.”  

“Fuck.” He considers this. “I’ve got to stop making her so angry.”

She chuckles. “You think she’ll be okay?”

“Yeah. Yeah, it was self-defence. More or less. Ohh, God. You can’t be quiet. Keep going, keep going.”

“I… what do you want me to talk about?”

“I don’t know. Normally shutting you up is the problem. Don’t go all shy on me now.”

“Okay, um…” She thinks hard. “Oh! I think we should keep the dance sequence at the end of the first act.”

“ _Really_?”

“But not—not with the showgirls,” she explains, “Arthie and Yo-Yo should do something together again.”

“You really think?”

“Yeah.”

“Huh, okay. Sure. What else?”

"Uh, how hard do you think it would be for us to hire a horse again...?"


	10. Family

**Sam**

“Oof, it’s been a while,” says Keith, “but I remember cracking a rib back when we were working on _Coffy_ …”

“Yeah, one rib, when you were – what, twenty-five?”

“Hey, man, _I_ didn’t get to sleep it off in a hospital bed afterwards. Some of us just have to work on through.”

“Yeah, yeah.” He scratches at the tag on his wrist. “It’s not that great.”

“They say when they’ll let you out?” Cherry asks, straightening the pile of books she has bought.

“No. Once they’re happy I’m not… you know.” He gestures vaguely to his middle. “… still leaking.” He sighs, and immediately regrets it, wincing.

She gives him a look of uncharacteristic sympathy. “You allowed more painkillers yet?”

“Nope.” He’s still bitter about this point. “Doctors are sadists.”

It had been an uncomfortable conversation; one he was grateful Ruth wasn’t around to witness: 

“Frankly, Mr Sylvia, I’m not prepared to prescribe opioids in this case.”

“Oh, come on—”

“Your blood alcohol was point-one-five on admission, your chest x-ray tells me you’re a chronic smoker, and there are traces of cocaine in your bloodwork. I’m not in the business of creating addicts. Look, pain management is vital for good recovery. You need to breathe deeply or you’re going to get pneumonia, which frankly could kill you. But you’re going to have to manage on NSAIDs and paracetamol. Use a pillow against your chest when you have to cough. And no smoking.”

“Doc, you’re killing me—”

“No, Mr Sylvia. The opposite—”

“Sam?” Cherry says, bringing him back into the present. “You still with us?”

“Uh, yeah. Come on, I want better stories than Keith’s fucking stubbed toe in 1971.”

There is a beat, as Cherry and Keith look at one another, something unspoken passing between them. “You wanna tell him?” she says.

“Well, now you _have_ to,” Sam says. “You can’t leave a statement like that just hanging. What? What is it?”

“We’re retooling the show, right?”

“I mean, a _little_.”

“I might want to… ease off on some of the stunt work for a while,” Cherry says slowly. “I’ll still co-ordinate.”

The penny doesn’t drop quickly for him. “You got other work, or…?”

“Not work, Sam.”

“Then, what?” Understanding eventually dawns. “Oh! Ooh. You guys are going for… the family thing again, huh?” He thinks about it, and finds he might just have mellowed a little with age. “That’s great.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. I mean, parenthood might have turned into a complete cluster-fuck for _me_ , but that doesn’t mean you guys can’t make it work.”

“Hmm,” says Keith. “I’m worried they did something to your brain while you were being scanned. This is  _not_ the Sam Sylvia I used to know.”

“Sh-shut up. I’ve grown, okay? Matured. I get it now. I mean, I actually miss having Justine around... Oh, stop it with the sad eyes. I don’t want _sympathy_ —”

“Did you get through on the ‘phone?”

“No. I rang again but there’s no answer. Ruth called, to let her know I was in here. Apparently, Rosalie didn’t take it very well...” 

He’s brooded on that too, in the quiet time between visiting hours. “I’m sorry, man,” says Keith.

“Yeah, well. She didn’t want Justine out here because she thinks it’s too dangerous. Haven’t exactly proved her wrong.” A bell rings, signalling the end of visiting hours on this maudlin note. “I don’t know why they have to do that,” he says, clasping their hands goodbye as they make to leave. “Makes me feel like a fucking prisoner.”

“Read your books, Sam," Cherry orders. "And try not to drive the nurses too crazy with your cranky-ass bullshit.”  

“No promises,” he says, waving them out.

* * *

He’s doing the crossword—the fucking _crossword_ , he’s so bored—when he thinks he hears her voice in the corridor outside. He puts down the paper, scowling at the door; wondering if he is indeed going mad—

He isn’t. Justine appears in the lintel. “Sam?”

“Hey,” he croaks. She seems frozen, a little horror-struck. He hasn’t been in sight of a mirror yet and wonders how bad it can be. “Uh, normally, you know I’d… get up and hug you,” he tries, extending his hand to her instead. 

The spell breaks, and she comes to his side. “What happened?”

“Pissed off the wrong guy.”

She shakes her head slightly, eyes wide. Like he’s saying the wrong thing—

“Really not helping your case for parental visits here,” says Rosalie acerbically, following their daughter inside. Her eyes rake his face. “I’m gonna go to the shop,” she announces. “You want anything?”

He recognises the kindness for what it is. “I’m good. Thanks.”

“Alright.”

“I read your script,” he says, once it’s just the two of them.

“Oh. God. Was it—?”

“It’s in the bag over there. Ruth bought it over for me. I made notes.”

“What, as if it was something you’d actually pitch?” She pulls out the folder, bristling now with bookmarks and paper. “Woah!”

“Not as if,” he says. “I’m going to. I mean, you know; if that’s what you want.”

“Are you fucking _kidding_ me?”

“Nope.”

She hugs him, gingerly, arms around his neck. “I’m really fucking glad you didn’t die,” she says.

“Yeah,” he laughs, screwing up his eyes to stop tears over-spilling. “Me too.”

 

* * *

 

 

**Carmen**

The door to their room opens, Rhonda returned from whatever mission has consumed her morning. “Hey. You gonna come up to the hospital later?”

“Oh, no…” Rhonda replies, clearly distracted. “I’m not sure Sam really wants to see me there, to be honest. Um. Have you seen Bash?”

“Not since curtain down last night.”

“Yeah, me neither. I don’t think he even knows what’s happened with Sam. He said he was going to get some cigarettes and then he disappeared.”

A tendril of panic wraps around her heart. “You don’t think… something happened to him as well?”

Rhonda looks wretched. “It’s possible, isn’t it? I mean, if they went after Sam…”

“Okay,” Carmen says, and starts lacing on her sneakers. “Let’s go look for him.”

“Only if you’re sure. I mean, it’ll probably all be nothing in the end. These things always are…”

“If it’s nothing, I’ll be happy too. Where do you think he went for cigarettes?”

“I don’t think it was really cigarettes,” Rhonda confesses. “I think it was harder stuff.”

“You know where he goes for drugs?”

“Yeah.”

“Let’s go see them.”

* * *

Gary is tall, with a teardrop tattooed under his eye. “Yeah, he was here on Saturday. Bought some acid.”

“Alone?”

Carmen looks sharply at Rhonda; there’s something else here, under the surface, that her friend knows and she doesn’t.

“No, he was with a bigger guy. You know, like, muscular.”

“Dark curly hair?”

“Fuck, what are you? Cops? I don’t know. Just remember he was big.”

“Okay,” Rhonda says, handing over the promised twenty bucks. “Thanks for your help.”

“No fucking problem.” He pushes off into the haze of the afternoon.

“I think I know where he might be,” Rhonda says slowly.

“You want to fill me in?” she hears herself replying, in tones of such withering scorn she might just be channelling Sam’s spirit.

Rhonda doesn’t rise, merely bites her lip. “We went out together and saw a show on Tuesday. A late one. Went to the bar after and got talking to some of the boys.”

“Actors?”

A shrug. “More like strippers.” For a long moment she looks at her feet, and then the words come out in a rush. “Carmen, Bash is gay. Did you know that?”

She blinks. It feels almost a relief to have the words out in the open. “Yes. But, but not because of anything he’s ever said—”

“No, same. I don’t think he can even tell himself, somehow. It’s sad.”

“Did he tell you Florian died?” she says, now it seems like all pretence is over.

It’s Rhonda’s turn to stare, wide eyed. “No. Oh my God. He was so young. Fuck."

“So, do we go and see if he’s with this…” She doesn’t want to say stripper, it feels almost mean.

“His name was Ritchie.” Rhonda considers their options. “Yeah, I think we should. I mean, he seemed nice and everything. But after what happened to Sam…”

Carmen nods.  “Lead the way.”  


	11. Witness Protection

**Debbie**

“Says here you were attacked in the parking lot of the _Oleander_ ,” says the detective.

“Yes,” she says, leaning back in the horrible chair at his desk. Around them the business of the station unfolds in a fug of nicotine and caffeine. She’s still not entirely sure if she’s the victim or the perpetrator in their eyes.

“Also says…” He turns the page. His eyebrows shoot into his hairline. “… that you beat three guys with a metal post to stop them killing your friend.” He gives her an appraising sort of look. “What was it you said you did, again?”

“I am the lead actor and producer of the Gorgeous Ladies of Wrestling.” She tries to keep her tone as icily professional as she can.

“Huh. I might just have to come see that. Given what you ladies can apparently do.” He lights a cigarette. “Well, the boys picked up two of our local morons from a walk-in clinic earlier; one with a smashed-up face and the other with a duck-egg of a concussion. They ain’t talking about who hit ‘em.” He drums his fingers on his desk. “Feel up to an identity parade?”

She shrugs. “If that’s what it takes to get out of here.”

“Oh, you’re free to leave at any time,” he says, waving his cigarette expansively.

She presses her lips together, to stop the first comment in mind making entrance into the world. “Mm,” she says instead, “except no one's let me make a 'phone call to get a ride home...”

“Ah.” He indicates his desk ‘phone. “Well, be my guest. But I’d be grateful if you’re do the parade first.”

“I will,” she says. “Thank you.”

He nods, standing to give her a modicum of privacy. She looks at the key pad and realises she doesn’t know any cab company numbers by heart. She sighs, about to swallow her pride and ask, when she remembers another number she could at least _try_ first—

* * *

Bash is smoking nervously in the reception when she is finally free to leave. Outside dawn is pinking the sky.

“Thank you,” she says, as they walk out together.

“No problem,” he says around his cigarette, all nervous energy. “I was beginning to worry you might need bail money.”

“Me too.” She sighs. “Why is it always like this?”

“Like, what?”

“Like… one step forward two steps back? You know, I sign a contract to stay out here in this shit-hole town and now we’re a-a… fucking mob target!”

“Wait, woah, slow down. The mob? I thought it was just two guys who tried to rob Sam?”

She blinks. Sometimes, Bash is too naive to be real. “I mean, that’s what they’ve said to the police. But Nicky is the real reason.”

“What? What makes you think _that_?”

Admittedly the evidence is circumstantial, now that she’s considering it. “It was… targeted. They lured him over and then they got out the car to attack him.”

“But why would Nicky do that? I mean, he doesn’t like our show, sure—”

“Because Sam undermined him. In front of the other men.”

Bash finishes his cigarette, frowning uncertain. “You _really_ think it was the mob?”

“I know it sounds ridiculous. But yes.”

“Well, we have to go into hiding then.” As if it’s the obvious solution. “Change our base of operations. Go underground!” He’s warming to the idea—like this is a film rather than their new and dangerous reality.  

She stares at him, open-mouthed, for a long moment. But actually, when she really thinks about it: it’s the grain of a good idea. Living in the casino was never a viable long-term plan. Apartments somewhere out in the city would give them some semblance of normalcy away from the ring; give her somewhere Randy could stay.

“That’s… actually not a bad idea,” she hears herself saying. Trying to find the words to play into his witness-protection fantasy. “A… safe house situation. Out in the city.”

“Let’s go do it!”

“What, now?” she laughs. She needs sleep, a shower; word from Ruth on Sam’s condition, even.

“Yeah! No time like the present. Let’s… let’s go find a realtor and sort it out. I mean, we’re the producers. It’s our job.”

No, she should say. But she thinks of Sheila’s knowing gaze, of Ruth’s panic. She thinks of trying to explain to everyone what was going through her mind when she picked up a fence post and attacked three men, rather than running for help like a sane and sensible person. About her screaming vengeance into the night, and what that must have sounded like from the outside.

“Okay,” she says instead. “But… I’m going to need breakfast first.”  

* * *

**Sam**

“Wait, wait, so we’re… what?”

“Moving out of the casino,” Ruth replies. “Bash and Debbie have it all in hand—”

“I didn’t say anything about moving out of the casino.” 

She swallows. “Well, it’s not actually your call, Sam.”

“I’m still the fucking _director_ —”

“This isn’t a show matter. This is a production management issue.” He recognises Debbie’s words when he hears them. She sighs. “They didn’t run it past me, either. But… I think they’re right. You know, we all get our own rooms this way, and, and…”

He gives her a withering look. “Don’t be so spineless.”

“I’m _not_!” she snaps back. “I’m just grown-up enough to know other people have good ideas sometimes too. Why are you fighting this?”

He opens his mouth, closes it again. In truth he’s not really sure, other than because he can. Because he doesn’t like being told what to do. It doesn’t improve his temper to realise this. “Alright, fine,” he says. And then, in a slightly smaller voice: “What about me?”

She rolls her eyes. “There’s a corner flat. It even has a spare room, so Justine can stay over.”     

“Huh. Some chance of _that_ —”

“ _Jesus_ , Sam! Can you just… tone it down for five minutes? Did you get out of bed on the wrong side this morning or what?”

He grinds his teeth together. “I’ve got four broken ribs and I haven’t had a cigarette in… who the fuck even _knows_ how long? This _is_ me toning it down.”

She sighs. “Well, I bought you your razor. And some more clothes. The nurses think there’s a good chance you’ll be discharged today. So, you know, clean up and feel better, and hopefully you can be yelling at them yourself by this evening.”

“Thank you,” he growls. Her mouth twitches. “What?”

 “Nothing! It’s just… I don’t think I know anyone else who can make a thank you sound so… so…”

“Ungrateful?”

“So much like a ‘fuck you.’”

“Mm.” Annoyingly, he can feel his own smile starting. “It’s a rare talent.”

He takes the razor and clean laundry and limps into the bathroom before she can cheer him up any more.


	12. Plans and Schemes

**Debbie**

“Hey,” she says. “Taxi’s here. You ready?”

“Uh-huh,” Ruth says, shouldering her bag. “Good to go!”

“Is that… all you’re taking?”

“Yeah.”

“I thought you were going to a wedding?”

“There’s a dress in there. And some shoes. What?”

“Nothing,” Debbie laughs, as they squeeze into the back of the cab together. “Just, that’s some military grade packing skills.”

“I roll things, so they don’t crease. Models do it,” she adds, defensively.

“I’m sure they do.”

Ruth worries her thumbnail with her teeth. “You think it’s going to be too casual—?”

“No, no. Ruth, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it to come across—”

“No! It-it didn’t. I mean, I trust your opinions on these things. You’re always so good at putting things together.”

“Well, thank you.” She considers their options. “You have time to come to my house first? I can take a look, and you can always raid what’s left of my closet if you decide—?”

“Russell’s… picking me up from the airport,” Ruth replies awkwardly.

“Oh,” Debbie says. “Well, that’s good. Gentlemanly.”

“He really is. Sweet like that. You know?”

“Mm-hm,” she says, smiling in spite of herself at Ruth’s unabashed delight. “So, where’s the wedding?”

“Just in the Valley. Someone Russell used to work with.”

“Uh-huh.” There are some questions that have to be asked. “In… in porn?”

“I think so.”

“Wow.”  She looks out of the window, afraid the laugh threatening to spill out of her will be taken in the wrong way.

“What are your plans?” Ruth asks, remembering herself.

“Oh. Nothing exciting. Randy… focussed.”

“Right, right,” Ruth nods. Awkward.

“Uh, are you catching the 21:50 back on Sunday?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, find me in the airport before?” she says. “Let’s sit together because I _need_ to hear all about a porn star wedding.”

Ruth cracks into a laugh, to her relief. “I’d love that,” she says.

* * *

**Ruth**

“So, Marissa works on camera?”

“That’s right.”

“And Paul does too?”

“Uh-huh.”

“But… not always with each other?”

“Nope.”

“Huh.” She thinks about this some more. “So, _how_ does that work with the whole—?”

“Look,” Russell says, putting his arm around her as they walk towards the church. “It’s just another acting job as far as they’re concerned. No different from having to share a kiss on screen, really.”

“You think that?”

“Nope,” he says again, “but it doesn’t matter what I think, because this isn’t my wedding. If it works for them, I’m happy for them.”

She smiles. “I get that. So, what have you told them about me?”

“Well, they know you’re an actress. _Not_ in porn,” he clarifies hastily. “And that you’re pretty much the nicest, funniest person in the world...”

“You said that?”

“Yeah, I said that.”

She kisses his cheek. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Look who’s talking.”  

* * *

**Carmen**

“Hey, have you seen Rhonda?”

“Not actually room-mates anymore,” Carmen says, not looking up from her letter writing, “and I don’t know where she is.”

“Carmen…” Bash folds his arms, expression half-exasperated, half-amused. “Are you still cross with me about the other day?”

“No… I’m not… Look, we we’re worried about you, okay? Sam was hurt, we thought you might have been attacked by the same people. We were just looking out for you.”

“And I appreciate it.”

“Well, you know, tell us where you are next time and we won’t have to fuss…”

His cheeks flush slightly. “I-I just _happened_ to bump into a mutual friend of mine and Rhonda’s—”

“I know, I know,” she says, trying not to roll her eyes. “What do you need her for anyway?”

“Oh, um. There’s a… just a miniscule chance that Birdy _might_ be flying out here with her new boyfriend and that she _may_ want to meet my, um, wife.” 

Carmen’s eyes widen. “Oo-kay. Rhonda’s in the _Arcadia_ with Jenny and Melrose. I’ll come with you.”

* * *

“Shit, dude,” says Melrose. “You’re so screwed. I mean, don’t get me wrong, you guys are super cute. But you’re not Oliver and Jenny level stuff here. You married a migrant to give her a green card _and_ you don’t have a pre-nup. She’s coming to cut you off.”

“Thanks,” says Rhonda, sarcastic. “That makes us feel a lot better about the whole situation.”

“Hey, I’m just telling it like it is…”

“Oliver and Jenny?” says Bash, lost.

“ _Love Story_ ,” reply Rhonda, Jenny and Melrose in unison.

Bash exchange a glance with her. “I haven’t seen it either,” Carmen admits.

“Okay, okay,” he says. “So, spit-balling here… what can we do to make that… _not_ happen?”

“Pretend to be pregnant?” Jenny suggests.

“Actually get pregnant?”

“Melrose!” Rhonda snaps, while Bash goes pale. “Not funny.”

“Alright, alright. Look, your Mom’s a grade-A snob, right?”

“Well, no, she—”

“She kind of is,” Carmen says with a wince.

“Okay, so less _Love Story_ , more… _My Fair Lady_.”

“Oh, I love that film!”

“Rhonda, focus.”

“What happens in _My Fair Lady_?”

“Carmen,” Jenny sounds genuinely appalled. “Have you actually been living under a rock?”

She blushes slightly. “It’s just been me, my brothers and my Dad for a really long time. Now, if you want a plot summary for _Conan The Barbarian_ —”

“I do _not_ —”

“Can we please focus on the plan!” Bash cuts in, before they veer even further off track. “Melrose, please. Explain. _My Fair Lady_ …?”  

“Rhonda just needs to pretend to be, like, minor royalty or something. Doesn’t even matter if she’s poor that way, right? Like, well-bred but down on your luck is still better than just-your-average-schmuck.”

There is a long moment of silence.

“Shit,” says Rhonda. “That’s actually a really good idea.”

“Ah-ah,” Melrose corrects. “Royalty. Not shit. Maybe _oh my goodness gracious_.”

“Oh, God, this is going to be so difficult...”

“No, no,” Bash says, a manic sort of gleam in his eyes. “You’re right. It _is_ genius. We just need to… practice your accent and come up with a good story.”

“Oh, my God. We need to get a tape of the wedding!” declares Jenny.

“Whose wedding?”

“Uh, Princess Diana’s, obviously?”

“Yes!” Bash actually pumps his fist. “I _knew_ I could count on you guys.”

“I’ve got a VCR player,” Carmen says, “And I’ll go get snacks. Reckon we can get a copy of the tape by two? Meet in mine?”

“Let’s do it,” says Rhonda. “Oh, I mean: one thinks this is an excellent idea.”

They all wince.

“Yeah,” says Melrose, “this is gonna be _so_ easy....”  

* * *

**Ruth**

The tables and chairs have been cleared away, the speeches finished, and the wedding disco commenced in earnest. Ruth sits, smiling, on the sidelines.

“You doin’ okay?” Russell asks, returning from the bar with their drinks.

“I’m doing great,” she says, and means it. “Everyone is so nice.”

“Yeah. They’re good people.”

“I like your friends.”

He smiles. “That’s good. They like you too.”

“Really?”

“Yeah! Of course they do.”

She’s not entirely convinced – there’s been a few textbook Ruth awkward moments over points of cultural reference, and a misjudged Jimmy Carter impression – but it means something that he’s goofy enough to lie.

“You guys gonna go for a dance?”

She turns to beam at Sandra, with a baby she _thinks_ is called William on her hip. “After these drinks?” she suggests.

“You know me. I love dancing,” Russell deadpans.

“Oh, I’m sorry! We don’t have to—”

“Relax, Ruth. I’ll dance.”

“Good,” says Sandra. “But if you’re not dancing _right_ now, can I get you to hold this munchkin for a moment? I am _desperate_ for a wee and I have no idea where Tony’s got to…”

“Oh, um, sure,” she stutters, receiving the baby awkwardly. For a moment William smiles up at her, cute as a button. Then his face cracks and the inevitable tears start to come. “Oh, shh, shh,” she tries, attempting to rock him. He redoubles his crying efforts in response.

“Ruth,” Russell says, unable to hide his smile. “Pass him here.”

“I’m sorry,” she says, handing him over. “I’m… really bad at this.”

“Well, I’m no expert,” he says, “But I think it helps if you hold them like, you know, a baby. Rather than an unexploded bomb.” He settles William into his arms. It’s not enough to stop the crying, but the pitch shifts into something more snivelling than enraged. “ _There_ we go.”

“How come you’re so good?”

“Eh, I’ve got to know quite a lot of 'em over the past few years. First comes the marriage,” he says, gesturing with his head to the unfolding party, “Then… you know, all the other stuff.”

She chuckles. “Yeah, I guess I haven’t had many friends who... Well, Debbie obviously…” She trails off.

There’s probably something strange in her response to Randy’s arrival she’s never really allowed herself to process. The emotional complexity of avoiding Mark, of course, has played into her relatively light presence in his life. But there are other things too—

“Hey,” says Russell, bringing her back from the brink. “It’s okay. It’s one of those things that gets easier with practice.” He makes to hand William back.

“Oh, no; look he’s quiet now, so—”

“Trust me. Put your arms like mine. That’s it.” He passes the baby back. Held close to her body, William’s less discomforted this time, snuggles against her a little. “See? Not so hard after all.”

She smiles, a little painfully. Now is _really_ not the time to try and explain why this moment is quite so emotionally fraught—

“Thanks so much you guys,” Sandra says, returning in the nick of time. “Oh, look at him, so comfy. It suits you, you know,” she gushes, taking her son back.

“Oh, um, ah,” Ruth stutters, mouth flapping like a fish. 

Russell, amused, drains his beer. “Dance?” he says.

“Oh, thank God, yes,” she replies, with genuine relief.


	13. Two Questions

**Ruth**

The afternoon before she leaves always tastes bittersweet, she’s come to learn. Part of her is frustrated at the melancholy that seems to descend as their hours together count down to zero; it seems pointless to start feeling sad when they’re not even separated yet.

Perhaps he can see the sadness on her face, seeping in as they sit entwined on his sofa, watching _Harry and Maude_. “Hey,” he says, lifting her chin for a kiss. “Not gone yet.”

“I know, I know…”

He pauses the VCR. “I, um, I have something for you, actually.”

“Like, a present?” she says, disbelieving.   

“Yeah. Stay-stay there.” He goes to find something in his bedroom, from the sound of it hidden in his sock drawer.

“Should I close my eyes?”

“Yep.” She does as instructed, grinning. She feels the sofa shift as he returns to sit next to her. “Okay, you can open them now.”

She blinks. He’s sitting next to her, not down on one knee, but he seems to be holding a small silver ring in the palm of his hand. Her insides contract painfully, a complex mix of feelings she can’t even begin to unpick.

“Um,” he says, “this was my Grandma’s. And I want you to have it.”

She can’t speak, not at first. “Um,” is all she manages, when she’s unstuck her throat. “As, um…?” Her brain feels like it’s flapping loose.

“As a ring for my girlfriend,” he says carefully.

“Oh.” She lets out a breath. “I’m sorry! I wasn’t sure if—”

“It was an engagement ring?”

She nods at her knees, unable to look him in the eye, not sure how she can have been so  _stupid_ as to think-

“Well, the thing about this particular girlfriend is… she’s very sensible and she doesn’t like to rush into things.”

“Right,” she laughs, looking up in relief, finding him smiling. Understanding.

“So,” he continues, “I know we’d have to do all sorts of things... Like meet her parents. Spend Christmas together. Live in the same city for… more than three weeks. Those sort of things. Before I could, you know, ask her a question like that. This ring is me saying I want to do those things. All of those things. You know. When she’s ready.”

She can’t speak, but she nods, and takes the ring from his hand.

* * *

She’s still feeling a little punch-drunk waiting to check her baggage at the terminal, when she sees Debbie stride in swiping angrily at goodbye tears.

The floaty happiness of the past few hours seems to evaporate, replaced by sheer and total panic. The idea of trying to explain the not-quite-engagement ring to Debbie—to outline her stupid, silly, giddy-happy afternoon—makes her feel physically sick. Guilt, dark and terrible, rises like bile in her throat. This isn’t the happy ending she’s ever wanted for herself before, and _certainly_ not one she deserves—

Debbie looks up and sees her, waves. She pulls the ring off her finger and stuffs it into her pocket as her friend approaches.  “Hey,” she manages, somehow, “how-how was your weekend? How’s Randy?”

“Oh, you know,” Debbie says, her chin trembling slightly. “I don’t think I can actually… talk about it right now.”

Ruth nods frantically. “I’m sorry—”

“It’s okay. I… please tell me you have a funny story from the pornstar wedding?” 

“Hmm, well, I did accidentally do a Jimmy Carter impression to a guy who played him in a series of pornographic movies known as the _President’s Problem_ …”

Debbie actually covers her mouth with her hand. “Ruth, _why_ …?”

“It made sense at the time!”

“Okay, I _clearly_ need the context…” 

* * *

**Sam**

He’s lighting an illicit cigarette when Ruth slips into the rehearsal room, customarily early.

She can’t help herself. “Should you… be doing that?”

“No,” he wheezes. “But I’d also like to get through today without killing anybody, so…”

She shakes her head but leaves him to it, settling into a chair on the front row and looking up at the ring with a focussed sort of intensity. He watches her, genuinely intrigued, until she feels the weight of his gaze and gives him another sharp look.

“Don’t be mean.”

He stubs out the cigarette and comes to sit next to her. “I wasn’t going to be.”

“Hmm.”

“So, what is this? Are you… meditating?”

“No! I just, like to focus on what we’re going to do today. Think it all through step by step. Really get into the zone, you know? Leave all the… distractions behind.”

“Mmm. How was the weekend? Have fun at the wedding with Russell?”

Something tightens in her face. “We had fun,” she says shortly.

“Sounds like it—”

“Just…”

“Just…? What?” he teases.

“I… I don’t want to talk about it, alright?” 

“Alright, alright. Jesus.” He clears his throat instinctively and immediately regrets it, fiery agony crackling through his chest.

“I was going to ask how the ribs were holding up…”

“Fucking terrible. But I don’t want to talk about that either.”

“ _Fine_ ,” she snaps, “what _do_ you want to talk about?”

“ _Sophie_.”

“Justine’s screenplay?” He nods. “What about it?”

“I think I have a backer.”

“… Bash?”

“No! Someone who’s actually _made_ films before.”

“Wow.”

He’s spent the best part of the weekend trying to figure out how the next sentence should go, but he’s still none the wiser. “Look, I can’t direct it,” he blurts out. Maybe blunt is best.

Her nose wrinkles, a sure sign she’s missed the point. “I know it’s been a while since you made a film but—”

“Don’t fucking misunderstand me,” he says, “I don’t mean I can’t do it _practically_. I mean, from a studio point of view. I’m an old man with a back catalogue full of boobs and blood. This is a coming of age story. Fucking _sensitive_. It’s going to look like  _Blue Lagoon_ Part Two if we have me at the helm.”  

“So… who…?”

He rubs his eyes, exasperated. “You, Ruth. I’m asking _you_ to direct it. We can cast it together, I’ll DP. Justine can do sound and be a second operator if we need. Small, simple. Cassavetes style.”

He doesn’t dare to look at her for a long moment, pretending he’s still massaging aching sinuses. Eventually he can’t bear the silence any longer, and risks looking at her face. He can’t read her expression at all.

“So?” he prompts. “Will you do it?”

She nods. “Yeah. Yeah, I’ll do it.”

He exhales. “ _Fuck_. Well, good." He risks another glance at her face. "I thought you’d be more… you know. Excited about it.”

“I _am_ excited,” she says, “it’s just… a lot to take in. You know, six weeks ago you told me your ego couldn’t stand me being more than your assistant.”

“Yeah, well.” He shifts uncomfortably, wincing at the pain in his ribs. “There’s been a fair bit of water under the bridge since then. And you’re still my assistant for GLOW. This is just… a side project. Experimental.”

Her expression shifts, softening into something he recognises. “Thank you,” she says, all doe-eyed sincerity. It’s more than he can bear.

“Oh, don’t go mushy on me. Come on. We’ve got a lot of shit to sort today for the main event.”

“Absolutely. You’re the boss.”

“Right.”

“For now…”

“Don’t push your luck.”


	14. Saddest of All

**Ruth**

“I can’t do it,” Debbie says, in that very definite way she has.  

“Ok, ok,” she replies, “We-we can try it a different way? Maybe—”

“What the _fuck_ are you talking about?” Sam snaps. She shoots daggers at him, but he ignores her scowl. “You can beat off three mob guys with a pole, but you can’t do this?”

Debbie purses her lips. Apparently, he has a point. “Fine. But if I break any bones, I’m going to break _you_.”

He raises his hands in mock surrender. “I’ll take those odds. Keith?”

The stuntman nods. “Now, have you ever ridden a motorbike before?”

“What do you think?”

He smiles. “It’s easy, okay? Clutch, gear, throttle. We’ll take it nice and slow…”

“So, you’re telling me it’s just like riding a bike?” Debbie suggests, laughing as she swings her leg over, and takes her seat on Road Warrior’s Harley Davidson look-a-like.

“Okay,” Ruth says, as they leave them to it. “So that’s the finale entrance sorted…” She consults her clipboard. “…We’ve got the rig set up for the fly-in segment…”

“Isn’t that Bash’s Mom?”

Her head snaps up. “Yep.”

“What’s she doing in Vegas?” He frowns. “Is that Bash’s _Dad_?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Jesus. Looks like something from a Hammer Horror.”

“Sam!”

“What?” He’s laughing at his own joke. “Oh, cheer up. Everything’s going well for a change. Why am I in a better mood than you?”   

“I’m _not_ in a bad mood.” 

“Mm-hm.”

“You’re going to _put_ me in a bad mood if you keep…”

“Keep...?”

She struggles to find the words. “…Bothering me.”

He rolls his eyes. “Alright, alright. I’m going to go and charm the elderly—”

“Don’t. Honestly, Bash has enough trouble as it is.”

“ _Does_ he?” he grins.

“You’re a terrible person,” she says, as he peels away to do the opposite of what she’s told him. “Really bad.” She sighs. “ _Bu_ - _ut_ , you know that anyway.”

She rubs her temple, where the tension headache is staring to throb, and turns her attention back to the clipboard. Despite her protestations to the contrary, she _does_ feel tightly wound. She suspects the root of it all is the silver ring, still sitting on her bedside table instead of her finger.

She doesn’t know why. Just the idea of explaining it to the others—to Sam; to Debbie in particular— still makes her feel sick. Which is _stupid_. She’s in love with Russell, they all know that. But it feels crass to wear the material signifier, somehow—

“Hey,” Dawn claps her on the shoulder, drawing her out of her miserable reverie. “You ready for hair and make-up?”

“Oh, um, sure,” she says, ticking off another thing on the endless to-do list, before following after.

* * *

**Carmen**

Rhonda slips into the bathroom. “Hey.”

“Hey,” they chorus, lurking in the stalls.

“How’s it going?” Jenny, attending to a flyaway wisp of her hair.

“Um, okay, I think. But she’s asking me questions about… polo.”

“The sport with the horses?” Melrose checks.

“I dunno, I just knew it wasn’t the mints…”

Carmen has an encyclopaedia on her knee. “Prince Charles plays it,” she reads. “You have to hit a ball with a mallet.”

“Okay, well, I can at least talk about the horses,” Rhonda says, standing still so Jenny can re-apply her lip gloss. “… I better get back out there.”

“Rhonda?”

“Yeah?”

“Accent.”

“Yes. Right. Toodle-pip.”

Jenny sighs happily. “We’ve done good work.”

“In deceiving the elderly?”

“Yes, Carmen. That’s what we’re doing here.” Melrose snorts. “I can’t believe it’s our last night of relative freedom and I’m hiding in the toilets at _Caesar’s Palace_. Story of my fuckin’ life.”

“Bash is going to take us all out later.”

“Yeah, well. He’d better.” Melrose tosses her hair in the mirror, pouting.

“You’re going to come out, right?” Jenny checks.

“Yeah,” Carmen says with a smile. “Last night of freedom after all.”

“Relative. Relative freedom.”

“Better not let Cherry hear you say that.”

Melrose makes a face. “Cherry’s not hearing _anything_ at the moment over the sound of—”

“Gross, gross, gross!” Jenny squeals. “I don’t want to know—”

“Well, neither do I, but the walls are pretty fuckin’ thin…”

Carmen lobs a roll a toilet roll at her head. “They’re trying to start a family,” she says. “Cherry told me.” 

“Emphasis on the _trying_ —”

“Oh my Gooood!” Jenny throws her own toilet roll. “Seriously. Both of you. Stop—”

The outer door of the bathroom squeaks a warning, and they pile into one cubicle to hide once again.

* * *

**Sam**

There’s a small courtyard garden in the apartment block, little more than a square of lawn, outlined with a gravel path and some scrubby bushes. He’s pacing around it like a caged tiger, counting steps. Walking, he’s been told, is essential to him regaining some semblance of a functioning rib cage in the next few weeks. The smoke of the casinos makes him cough, which is still unbearably painful, and mixing bourbon with his cocktail of painkillers made him worryingly woozy when he tried it before.

So, he’s walking, around and around. Smoking a cigarette, of course, because he wouldn’t know who he was anymore if there wasn’t some small element of self-sabotage.

Almost all of the girls are out, celebrating their last night of freedom before the week of technical and dress rehearsals start; the promotional matches out on the Strip. He should feel nervous, but in his heart of battered hearts he knows they’ve got a show unlike anything this town’s ever seen. As long as they can avoid being gunned down by mobsters, or the casino accidentally burning to the ground, they might actually be okay...

He shakes his head. Why did he have to think that? Now they’re presumably doomed to some conflagration—

Movement catches his eye. Someone standing up from their desk at the window, flicking on the lamp for more light as twilight falls. Ruth, of course. Pacing back and forth, restless as he is. Her silhouette lingers behind the glass for a moment; perhaps she sees him down here in the garden. Then she disappears. He sighs, finishing his cigarette.  There’s an ache in his chest that has less to do with the tire iron than he’d like…

The courtyard door opens and Ruth steps out, her copy of the Justine’s script in hand. “Busy?” she asks lightly.

“Clearly.”

She smiles. “Can we talk?”

“Oh, I’m sure we can.” She puts her head on one side, unconvinced, and he gives up the pretence of prickliness. “You had dinner yet?” he asks, fairly sure of her likely answer.

“Oh, um. No, actually,” she says, proving him right. 

“Wanna split a pizza?”

“Sure.”

* * *

“No, you won’t be able to get it like that,” he says, finishing the last slice. “The other camera will be in shot,” he explains through a mouthful of cheese.

“Really? I did trigonometry, though…” She points to one of several hundred little annotations on her copy of the script.

He sighs, deeply, squinting to make sense of her math. “Okay. You _might_ make it work,” he says, grudgingly. “But you’re gonna piss off your main operator. Which, by the way, is me.”

“I know, I know,” she laughs. “But if you quit I guess I’ll just… shoot the movie myself.”

He chuckles. “Sure. Or, you know, call in Russell.”

She stills. He isn’t sure himself why he’s bought _that_ elephant into the room when they’re working with their heads bent over the same script, and he feels the happiest he has in months. Probably for the same reason he smokes a cigarette every time he goes for a goddamn recovery walk.

“I, um,” she says. “I don’t want to mix—”

“Relax,” he says. “I was just kidding.” She still looks thoroughly miserable, and like a man with toothache he has to probe to see when the _real_ pain will come. “Ruth?”

“Yeah, sorry. I-um…” She runs her hand through her hair.

He exhales slowly. “I don’t wanna hear this, do I?”

Those big sad eyes turn up at him, as she digs something out of the pocket of her jeans.  A small silver ring, antique looking. He raises his eyebrows. “It’s not an engagement ring,” she says.

“No,” he agrees. “So?”

“So, I – I don’t know. I know it’s stupid, but it feels like it’s made everything so _complicated_. You know, things have been so easy, and so _good_ , and now—”

“Yeah, I get it.”

She stops. “You do?”

“Yeah. It’s commitment. It’s scary.”  He gives her a sad sort of smile. “It means you’re either _in_ —which is terrifying because you’re giving them a piece of yourself to be thrown back at you later on. Or you’re out, which is going to hurt like hell right now.” He scratches his nose. “Plus, you know, in your case there’s always an outside chance Debbie might actually kill you.”

“Oh, _God_.”  

“Will you calm down?” He stands, stiffly, and she watches him cross the room to his jacket. There’s a St Christopher medallion in the inside pocket, one he’s been carrying around for the past decade or so, for no real reason he can give. He extracts the chain and takes the ring from her, threading it through carefully. “See? Problem solved. Much more subtle.”

He doesn’t understand the look she’s giving him, but he’s seen it once before, under similarly emotionally fraught conditions. He can’t stand the thought of losing her to fucking _Russell_ , of all fucking people, but the thought of losing her altogether is somehow even worse.

“Thank you,” she says.

“Yeah, yeah. You’ve been making me look like the kind and sensitive one these past few days. I had to do _something_.”

She smiles, in spite of herself, and catches sight of the time. “Oh, God. When did it get so _late_?”

“I dunno, on note 375?” he quips, shuffling over to the door to let her out.

She lingers for a fraction of a second too long on the threshold, like there’s something else she has to say before she loses her courage. “...Good night, Sam.”

“Night Ruth. See you tomorrow.”

* * *

_Knock-knock_.

He opens the door.

“Hi,” says his caller. “My name’s Candy.”

He’d bet everything he owns it isn’t. “Sam,” he says. “Uh, come in.”

She steps inside, and he hangs her smart little coat up for her on the hook. “Nice place.”

“Mmm—”

Further awkwardness is interrupted by his ‘phone ringing. “You need to get that?” she asks, reading his face pretty well.  

“Actually… I probably do. Um, help yourself to a drink if you’d like.” He gestures, pointlessly, to the bourbon and glasses he’s put out.

“Hey.” Justine’s voice when he picks up the receiver.

“Hey, kid. You alright?”

“Yeah, just back from the gig.”

“Good one?”

“Yup. You busy?”

“A little,” he confesses, “but I can talk if you—”

“Nah,” she says, “I’m going to bed anyway. Just, you know, checking in.”

“I’ll be sure to report it back to the chief warden.”

She laughs. “Better had, if you want me to get parole in time for the festival next month.”

“Alright. G’night.”

“Goodnight.”

Candy hasn’t touched the drinks when he returns. “That your kid?” she smiles.   

“Yeah,” he says thickly. This feels _much_ harder than he remembers. “Uh, you might have to give me a minute or two…”

She nods. “Look, Sam. It’s not up to me to tell you how to spend your money. But… I can just talk, if that’s what you’d prefer.”

He sits next to her on the sofa. “You do that a lot?”

“More than you’d imagine… You seem a little sad.”

“Yeah,” he says. “I guess I am.” He sniffs, and realises his cheeks are wet with tears. “Really fucking _sad_ —”

She holds him, as he sobs, and that might just be the saddest thing of all.  


	15. GLOW

**Carmen**

“Hey,” Bash says, as they wait in the wings. The noise of the audience is a deep hum, a sound unlike anything she’s ever heard before. Even her Dad’s biggest matches were a scale down from this. “You’re going to be great. Okay?”

She nods, not trusting herself to open her mouth, stomach a nest of anxious snakes. He reaches across, gives her hand a reassuring squeeze. “You too,” she manages, squeezing back.

He straightens his bow tie. “Oh, I know,” he grins. Not nervous at all. She can’t help but envy him his confidence.

“Ladies and Gentlemen. Please take your seats. Tonight’s performance will commence in three minutes. Three minutes, please.”

The buzz of the audience changes pitch slightly after the recorded announcement finishes, excitement palpable. Bash gives her a wink and slips out onto the dark of the stage, eager to begin. Sam ambles up to take his place, pale and sweating, although from the way he’s rubbing his nose she’s not sure it’s all down to nerves. “You good?” he says.

“Mm-hm,” she manages.

He pats her shoulder. “It’s all going to be fine,” he says, putting on the stage manager’s headset. “Absolutely fine.” She wonders who he’s trying to convince. “One-two, one-two—” He winces at a burst of static. “—thanks for that. Okay, curtain in one minute.”  

This is all she’s ever wanted to do, she reminds herself, over the hammering of her heart. In a moment, when she steps out onto stage, Carmen will cease to exist. Machu Picchu will take over, alongside her new characters. Pythagora, the Greek philosopher frustrated to be left out by history; Artraxia, the badly programmed robot, who helps the heroes instead of killing them. Between them Sam and Ruth have given her something much _much_ better than wrestling a sock-puppet snake. It’s worth this heart-stopping moment in the dark—

The house lights go down. The curtains pull back. Bash is illuminated in the spotlight, immaculate in his tuxedo. A beat of total silence.

“Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls. Welcome! To the fabulous world… of GLOW!”

The lights cut out on cue, plunging them into darkness, and from in amongst the audience Jenny shouts out. “Hello? Is anyone there?” She descends the stairs towards the stage, dressed in her pink Sandra Dee style dress, hair in fifties curls. Every inch the all-American teenager and daring anyone to tell her different. “My car broke down in the storm and I’m stuck! Hello?”

Pyrotechnics flare on the stage, a lightning bolt crackling. Some of the audience actually scream, covering Sam’s yelp backstage. “Jesus Christ,” he hisses into the headset. “What did I say about not setting the place on fucking _fire_?”  

Jenny has reached the stage, the lights rising a little to reveal the shadowy outlines of Brittanica’s laboratory. “Is there anyone here? What even _is_ this place?” Another thunderbolt, and Jenny trips, stumbling against a hexagonal console centre stage. “Oh! Oh, a telephone, thank goodness...”

She picks up the comically large handset, dialling aloud. “202…554…0175.” Above her the digits appear in red on a counter, followed by the letters “BC.” There is a titter of laughter from those in the audience quick on the uptake. Jenny shakes the receiver. “No dial tone… The storm must have knocked out the power.”

Her eyes catch on an enormous red lever, a huge circuit breaker. She shrugs, and throws the switch, bringing the console into the life. Strobes flash and gears spin, the time machine in motion. A thumping crash over the speaker as it lands; Jenny throwing herself to the ground with aplomb.

The lights finally raise, revealing them to be somewhere in the desert. Footage Sam shot in the dust out towards Rhyolite, flickering on the back wall, completes the illusion of a hazy mirage.

Out of the wings the Cavewomen come creeping. Ruth, Rhonda and Melrose, looking like extras from _One Million Years BC_ in fur bikinis and body paint. They stalk towards the unconscious Jenny and her time machine, picking over the pieces; pulling the red switch off the console and holding it aloft, victorious—

“Get away!” shouts the Sourceress. Cherry; bursting onto the stage in another flurry of sparks that makes Sam grit his teeth. “Give it back to her!”

“Ours!”

“Ours!”

“I don’t think so!”

Cherry kicks Ruth square in the chest, sending her flying across the stage. She rolls, over and over, down onto the lower level and into the conveniently waiting wrestling ring. Cherry, Rhonda and Melrose bounce down after her, and the first match is begun.

* * *

 

**Debbie**

The energy level of the post-show dressing room is, frankly, unbearable. She slips outside, finding Sam down the corridor, smoking morosely. He has the air of a man in personal crisis if she’s honest, but he’s been oscillating on the edge of that catastrophe curve for as long as she’s known him. Maybe it’s just where he lives.

More worrying is that she’s becoming curmudgeon enough to keep finding herself on the periphery of events like this with him.

“It’s fucking crazy in there,” she says, taking his proffered cigarette.

“I figured.”

“What’s the verdict from Ray?” she says, lighting up.

“Audience loved it. Press is going to be good.”

“So… success?”

“Yeah, looks like.”

She exhales smoke. “It, uh, it doesn’t _feel_ like—”

“Yeah, I know. It’s weird. Like we’re…”

“Waiting for the other shoe to drop?”

He nods. “Something like that.”

“You should go in and say something.”

“I know, I know.”

She sighs. “Let’s just do it. Then we can go down to the bar for one— _one_ _—_ celebratory drink, and sleep, and, and… do it all again tomorrow.”

“Yep.”

Neither of them moves.

“Is Justine coming to see?”

“Couple of weeks, hopefully. What about you?”

“Mark and Susan keep talking about taking a weekend break here to catch the show… bring Randy for a visit.”

He winces. “Sounds fucking awful.”

She laughs. “Yeah.”  

“Well, it’s not like I don’t owe you a favour.” He stubs out the cigarette, finding his feet with a groan. “I could make things pretty miserable for them.”

She doesn’t doubt that he could. Although she’d like to think she isn’t that petty, these days she’s not so sure. “I’ll… hold that offer in reserve for now. But thanks.”

He bares his teeth in something like a smile. “Shall we?”

She nods. Together, they head back into the chaos.


	16. Into Orbit

**Ruth**

“Hey,” she says, when he eventually opens the door, dishevelled and unshaven. “I’ve got donuts.”

“It’s nine am,” Sam rasps, “… _why_?”

“Because,” she says, “you’re… cranky. And you told me that you hate it when you know exactly what you’re going to be doing for a long stretch, and that’s exactly what GLOW is. For the moment. So, I thought we could work on something else, and maybe you’d feel—”

“Alright, alright.” He puts his hands up in surrender. “I give up. Come in. Just… be less loud.”

There’s an empty bottle on the table, surrounded by crumpled cigarette cartons and suspicious flecks of silver foil. The whole flat smells of stale smoke and spilt whiskey; of Sam feeling sorry for himself.

She rips open the curtains, letting in the light, and cracks the window.

“Ugh,” he says, re-entering from his bedroom. “Too bright.” He’s put on pants and is tugging a clean-ish tee shirt down awkwardly. Bruises on his torso, flowered in purple and green, can’t fail to catch her eye. He looks down sharply. “What—? Oh. Yeah, still a mess.”  He tucks the shirt in, suddenly self-conscious.

“I’m going to make coffee,” she says, because he looks like he’s going to need a lot of it. “And you should eat something. Because then we need to talk about casting…”

He shakes his head but opens the bag of donuts at least. She sees him smile at the pink-frosted and plain sugar inside. In the safety of his kitchen she smiles too. Boils the kettle and brews a fearsome mug of black, sweet coffee.

“Here you go.”

He takes a scalding sip and makes a grateful sort of groaning noise, uniquely Sam. “Oh, that’s the stuff.” He rubs his eyes. “What were you saying about casting?”

“That we should talk about it—”

“We’ve got to pitch yet.”

“I thought you _had_ a backer?”

“Well, yeah, but they don’t even know you’re slated to direct. We’ll need to convince them.” He opens one bloodshot eye, staring at her. “Don’t panic. We _will_ convince them.”

“Okay, so, talk me through the _how_ …”

“Mmm. More coffee first. Eat your donut.” She sighs, but does as he instructs, taking a big bite— “Ruth?”

She almost chokes on powdered sugar. “Yeah?”

“Thank you.”

Her mouth twitches up at the corners. Under her shirt, the chain he gave her lets Russell’s gift sit where it should, over her heart. She might never understand the inexorable force that pulls them back into orbit around one another, but perhaps she doesn’t need to. When they really need someone, it seems the other is destined to be there.

“Don’t thank me,” she says, making him grin at his own words thrown back to him. “You know how much work I’m going to make you do today?”

“Oh, you can _try_ …”

“I always do.”

“Yeah,” he agrees, softer than usual, as he takes another sip of coffee. “You always do.”

* * *

Russell picks up on the third ring. “Hello. Russell here—”

“It’s me.”

“Oh. Hey me. How’re you doing?

“I’m okay—”

“Oh dear.”

“…What?”

“I know that tone of voice.”

She winds the cord of the ‘phone unthinkingly around her thumb, suddenly anxious. “What tone?”

“Your feeling guilty tone.” He says it lightly, so she knows he’s not angry about it. “What’s up?”

She sighs. “I’m… going to have to move our plans for next week.”

“Well, that’s disappointing,” he says, and it sounds it. “Tell me it’s for a good reason at least?”

“Uh… I’m going to a pitch meeting.”

“Oh, well that is good. For what?”

“A film. Uh, Justine wrote it, and Sam thinks he has a backer…  but they’re in New York right now, and we only have the Monday night window when we’re not both needed for the show, so…”

“Oh. So… you’re going to New York with Sam and Justine? That’s pretty cool.”

She presses her fist against her forehead, cursing silently as she realises for the first time just quite how the next sentence is going to sound. “Uh. Actually, it’s just, um, just me and Sam. Justine’s still in school at the moment…"

“Right.”

There is a clicking, static filled silence. “Are you mad?” she says, when she can’t bear it any longer.

He sighs. “No, not mad. Sad. You know, Sam gets to monopolise you all the time out there. I was just looking forward to seeing you.”

“I’m sorry. It’s just, it’s a great opportunity, and—”

“I know, I know. This is what you want to do.” He sighs again. “And we can rearrange.”

“Yes! Please. I’ve been really looking forward to seeing you too.”

“Really?”

“Yes!”

“How much?” he teases.

“A _lot_ ,” she says, closer into the receiver, even though she’s all alone. He enjoys how flustered she gets, talking romantically on the ‘phone, and if she’s honest with herself, so does she.

* * *

“You sure you don’t want the window?”

“I’m sure.” Sam is gripping the armrests of his seat and the engines haven’t even started yet.

She considers the available evidence. “Are you… nervous?”

“Yeah, I’m nervous. I hate flying. What?”

“Nothing! Just, unexpected.”

“Shut up.”

“ _Fine_. Although, you know you might feel better if you’re distracted…”

“No, I just want a few hours of quiet, so I can read my book in peace. And think.”

“Okay, okay. Message received.” She presses her head against the window, watching the luggage being loaded into the hold, the ground crew clearing away.

He makes an irritated noise.

“What? I’m being quiet.”

“Yeah, but you’re… using the window.”

She makes an indignant noise. “Yes, I’m _using_ my window. What else is it for?”

“I know, I know, but you’re reminding me it’s there by looking out of it.”

“What, so I have to just sit here in contemplative _silence_ for the next five hours?”

“I mean, that would be the ideal, yes,” he replies.

She gapes at him. “You’re _unbelievable_. You know that?”

“Alright, alright. Talk then, instead.”

“I—I don’t have anything to say right now!”

“Oh, well, that _is_ a first—”

“Ladies and gentlemen,” interrupts the pilot over the intercom. “Welcome to flight three-seven-three, the fifteen hundred to New York. We’re about to ready to depart, just waiting for clearance from the tower…”

The engines start, and he redoubles his grip, white-knuckled. It’s an effort not to laugh at him. “So,” she says instead, “we land about midnight, right? What’s a thing you do at midnight in New York?”

“You can do whatever you like. I was planning on getting some sleep.”

“Oh.”

“ _What_?” He closes his eyes as the plane starts to rattle with acceleration.  

“No, you’re right. You’re right. That’s sensible. I’ve just… I’ve never been to New York before either.”

“Oh, God. Please don’t make me play tourist.”

“No, it’s fine. I can go and have a little look around by myself. Just-just for an hour or so. Still plenty of time to sleep before the appointment tomorrow.”

“You idiot,” he says, as the wheels leave the ground. “I’m not letting you wander New York by yourself at one in the fucking morning.” He lets out a breath. “Are we up yet?”

“Yeah. Above the clouds already—”  

“Don’t tell me that!”

“Oh, I’m sorry. I forgot, we’re flying in the world’s first plane that cruises only six feet above the ground—”

“Jesus _Christ_. Why are you like this?”

“Why am _I_ like this? You’re the one who’s _completely_ unreasonable—”

“Sir? Madam?” A stewardess’s voice breaks into their bickering. “Are you doing okay?”

Ruth flushes, as she realises several pairs of eyes are on them—

“We’re fine,” Sam snaps. “This probably actually counts as good for us. Could do with an extra pillow though, if you have one?”

“Of course, sir.”

There is hotly awkward silence left between them in her wake. He sighs eventually to break it. “Times Square.”

“What?”

“Midnight in New York. Let’s go to the hotel via Times Square.”

She smiles, out of the window, as the desert drops away. “Okay.”


	17. The Pitch

**Sam**

It’s a cliché, the kind he hates, but there’s no other word for it. Her face is actually _shining_ with joy. “Oh, God.”

“What?”

“You’re embarrassing me.”

“Why, because I’m excited?”

“Excited? You’re like a kid at Christmas.”

She rolls her eyes. “I mean, it’s Manhattan. It’s like being in—”

“About a third of American cinema from the last thirty years. I know. I get it.”

“So, this does nothing for you?”

He shakes his head, taking in the taxis; the flashing lights and steaming sewers. “It does something. I mean, it stinks and there’s a good chance we’re about to get, I dunno, stabbed and robbed? Standing here like idiots.”

She gives him a look, not at all fooled. “You were the one who suggested we came here.”

“Yeah, I know.” He shifts his rucksack, wincing slightly. “But my poor decision making is legendary.”

“Okay, let’s go find the hotel. You need me to carry your bag for you?”   

“Does my body look like it is dead?”

“Mmm, pass.”

“Oh, ha-ha.” He catches her fingers, to stop her moving off in completely the wrong direction. “This way.”

She swings his hand for beat or two, unthinking, until the natural cadence of their steps pulls them apart. He swallows, suddenly dry mouthed.

“Is it far to walk? Should we get a cab?” she asks, oblivious.

“Nope, we’re here.”

“… What?”

He nods up at the hotel sign. “This is us.”

“This must be expensive,” she frowns.

“Good job we’re not paying.”

“Seriously?”

“Yeah. It’s how I know George meant it about maybe coming on board as a producer.”

“Ho-oh,” she breathes, nerves suddenly striking her. “You wanna run the pitch one more time?”

No, he thinks. “Sure,” he says. Which really is the most damning indictment of all.  

* * *

They have separate rooms but an adjoining door; possibly a metaphor for their whole relationship. Still, it makes him uncomfortable for reasons he can’t really articulate. He coughs. “Er,” he says to the wood, stupidly.

She opens the door. “Come in.”

“Oh, you’ve got a bolt on your side. Good.”

She gives him a strange look but lets the moment pass without further comment. “Okay, you sit there…” She shepherds him into the desk chair. “So, now you’re George…”

He shakes his head. “No, it won’t be like this. The first part is all, you know, back-slapping and dick-measuring. Let… let me handle that part, okay?” She nods. “Okay, then we have to try and ask the right questions to lead into the pitch. Which is where you come in.”

“Right, right. I outline the story, the plans we have in terms of filming locations...”

“Right.” He bites his lip. “I’m not sure how George is going to take that. He’s old school. Older than me.”

“You think he won’t like a woman—?”

“I don’t care. But… you shouldn’t either. If he’s patronising or-or superior—”

“Gee, yes, I wonder how I would handle that,” she says drily.

“Alright, alright.” The irony isn’t lost on him. “Can’t predict what will happen after that. Either he likes it or he doesn’t.” Unthinking he reaches into his pocket for his cigarettes, lighting up. “Yeah.” He takes a drag, catching her eye. “What? Oh, you don’t _smoke_.”

He passes his cigarette over anyway, laughing at the face she pulls; every inch the school nerd trying to be cool.

“What?” she says, managing not to cough but only just.

He can’t quite put it into words; how unlikely it seems that the universe would put them together, in this time and in this place, uncomfortably at ease. How a woman so utterly _guileless_ could have somehow slipped under his armour—

“Doesn’t matter,” he says, derailing that train of thought. “I need some sleep.”  

She smiles. “Yeah. I should try that too. Night.”

“Night.”

She doesn’t bolt the door. Which means _nothing_ , he tells his silent reflection in the bathroom as he brushes his teeth, other than that she trusts him not to be a dick.

Sleep is a long time coming.

* * *

They descend back to street level in silence; step outside into the noise and smell of the city, still unspeaking. He doesn’t even _look_ at her until they are a block away, when he pulls out his cigarettes instinctively, and brown eyes find blue.

His hand is trembling as he lights up. “Fuck,” he says. It’s maybe not the most articulate summary, but it feels like the most accurate.

She laughs shakily. “I know, right?” she manages, and then - still laughing - bursts into tears. “Oh, fuck. _Fuck!_ ”  

“Hey, hey,” he says, squeezing her shoulder until she looks up at him again. “We can still fuck _all_ of this up. Trust me.”

“I know, I know! Oh my God… Sam. We’re making a _film_. Justine’s film.”

“Yeah,” he says, smiling now too. His cheeks ache, so unfamiliar is the feeling. “I know.”

“What do… what do we do now? What comes next?”

“Well,” he says, “you’re the director. You tell me.”

He laughs, as she dissolves into happy tears again.

“Let’s, let’s go get a drink,” she suggests, when she has control of herself, hiccoughing slightly. She thinks to check the time. “… At the airport, because otherwise we’re going to miss our flight back.”

“Fuck,” he says, looking at his own watch. He steps onto the street, arm in the air, hailing a cab. Realises she’s staring at him, that curiously intense look on her face again. “What?”

“Oh, nothing,” she says, smiling as the cab pulls up. “Let’s go home.”

* * *

His flat feels very small when he finally returns. The flight back and their evening show has taken the edge off the gut-clench excitement of their successful pitch, but he still feels more alive than he has in years.

He thinks he used to celebrate these moments with booze and blow, and maybe getting laid by someone whose name he wouldn’t remember. Funny, how what used to be a good time have become his shitty coping mechanisms over the last decade or two.

He wanders into his bedroom and picks up the ‘phone instead. Yes, it’s late, but they’ll just have to deal—

Justine picks up before the second ring. “Sam?

“Hey. How’d you know—?”

“Who else is going to ring here after midnight?”

“Oh. Fair point.”

“How’d it go… did they… like it?”

“Yeah. Yeah, they liked it.”

“Like… a _lot_ or…?”

“Enough that we’re going to make it.” He hears a gasp, and then some indistinct noises that are hard to work out. “Are you _crying_?”

“No,” she says thickly, too quickly. “Don’t be stupid.”    

“Yeah, you are,” he laughs, settling down on the bed. “So, you wanna hear the whole thing...?”


	18. Punching Out

**Debbie**

“No, I can’t do then,” Ruth is saying, as she slips into the rehearsal room.

Sam scowls, shuffling paper. “Okay, well how about the weekend after?”

“Ye-ah, that _should_ work—”

“What are you guys planning?”

Their heads snap round. “Promos,” Sam smiles, lying easy for him. Ruth’s face is the giveaway.

“Wrestling out on the Strip?”

“Uh-huh,” Ruth covers, nodding too hard. Sam gives her a warning look he probably thinks is subtle, and she stops abruptly.

“I think it’s a great idea,” she says, laying the trap. “Who’re you thinking? When and where? Let’s—”

“Good _morning_ guys!” chirps Bash. “How’re we all doing?”

“Fine,” Sam replies. “Just working out some promos...”

“Oh, yes, excellent, excellent. I forgot to tell you guys, I’ve been talking with Carmen, and there’s actually a wrestling festival coming up we can have slots at.”

“Really—?” starts Ruth.

“Sounds good—” Sam overlapping.

There is a beat, a twitch of a coy smile between them. It’s subtle; maybe they don’t even realise; but it’s plain to Debbie as the nose on her face. She grinds her teeth together, filthily angry with Bash for giving them a clear out from their stupid lie.

“Yeah, it’s going to be excellent,” he continues oblivious. “Also, we have the Las Vegas Sun coming to the show tomorrow. They want to do a longer piece, profile some of you girls. Debbie, obviously, I’ve slated you for a long interview.”

She can imagine it now, spinning the shitshow of her life split between here and Randy into something worth reading. “Thanks.”

Ruth doesn’t miss her tone, and risks catching her eye for a second. “Debbie, are you…?”

“I’m fine. Just, keen to keep up momentum. You know? We need to get this show back on the air. That should be our priority right now.”

It’s almost too easy to play Ruth like a fiddle. Her cheeks are pinking. “Of-of course.”

Sam folds his arms, chewing the inside of his mouth; a worthier adversary. “Got any ideas on that score?”  

“Yeah,” she fires back. “There’s a cable show scheduled for the convention centre in two weeks. This time I want us to show up with the best goddamn display in the place.”

Bash is grinning. “I like the sound of that…”

“Good. How about you two? You can manage the weekend after next?”

“Sure,” says Ruth stoutly, as Sam rolls his eyes. “I think we should bring the new characters, the ones we can sell.”

“Agreed.”

The men nod. “Any other business?” asks Bash.

“No,” says Sam.

She shakes her head.

“Well, production meeting adjourned,” Bash smiles. “Who wants breakfast before rehearsal?”

“Oh, I would!” Ruth, utterly transparent, spotting the opportunity for an easy exit.

“We’ll catch you up,” says Sam, making a play of gathering his papers.

She watches him, like a cat. She wants to snarl and rage, ask him what the fuck he’s playing at. But there’s ground to be gained if he has to make the first move—

“If you’ve got something to say…I’d spit it out.”

Damn him. “It’s not subtle,” she tries. “Whatever little… side-scheme you’re dragging Ruth into. If you fuck this show up—”

“I’m flattered you think I’m so—”

“You’re not. But Ruth is. GLOW needs her.”  

He gives her a knowing look. “Really? GLOW needs her? Or are we _actually_ talking about—?”

“You have _no_ right.” She’s hoarse with rage already, surprising herself. “You think I’m fucking blind? I’ve seen the way you stare after her. Maybe you can fool yourself, but not me. She’s the only thing you have left in your _sad_ little life—”

“Oh, because yours is so great?” He’s good at anger too.

“You think things are bad for me? _Remember who put me here_.”

He scoffs. “Come off it already! Ruth’s not to blame for you standing here right now. Not anymore. Take it from one serial fuck-up with anger issues to another—”

“I’m not like you.”

“Really?” He puts his hands on his hips, and she realises they are mirror images, chins up-thrust and lips curling. “Look… it’s a short film. That’s all. We’ll shoot around shows. GLOW’s where the money is. And I’ve got to think about shit like college tuition in the next few years, on top of alimony. Alright?”

She sighs. “Alright.”  

He taps his fingers against his leg. “I like it better when we’re on the same side punching out,” he offers as olive branch.

“Yeah,” she agrees, shoulders slumping slightly. “Me too.”

So stay in the ring, she doesn’t add.

* * *

“Debbie, right?”

She looks up into the dead shark-eyes of Nicky. Her pulse jumps, but she’s actress enough to play it cool. She’s drinking coffee and smoking a guilty cigarette in the diner around the corner from the _Oleander_. It’s about as public a place as she could be in, small children sipping milkshakes in the booths opposite. He doesn’t seem to have come with the heavy squad. Still, she's nervous. 

“Nick.” She takes a drag on her cigarette, watching him carefully in case of sudden movement.  

“Believe I owe you an apology.”

“What for? I wasn’t the one that went home with my nose in a sling.”

He grins. “Exactly. I underestimated you. And that idiot with the mustache. Quite the little goldmine that show of yours has turned out to be.”

“Mmm. Well, you had the opportunity for entrance on the ground floor…”

“I did, I did. I was wrong, I can admit that. Now I want to make amends.”

“Well, unless you can magically fix broken ribs…”

“Word has it you’re looking for a network distributor.”

“Of course we are,” she returns calmly, refusing to be wrong-footed. “We’re a TV show by design.”

“Well, I know people in that business. Might be able to arrange an introduction, if you’d be interested?”

“What would the catch be?”

“Thirty-five percent.”

She laughs archly. “No one’s that stupid.”

“Alright, alright, twenty-five. I’m a fair man. You just say the word and you’re back on the airwaves. No risking yourself at the whim of those guys at the cable show in two weeks. Something guaranteed. No worry.”

“Hmm, but like you said, we’re a little gold mine… Why would we be worried?”

“Ah, I know those cable guys. Known them a long time. They can be… risk averse. You know? They don’t like to rock the apple cart.” He raises his eyebrows. “You understand what I’m saying?”

“You’re saying that if we don’t go with your guy, you’ll intimidate the other cable network executives into leaving us cold?”

“No, no,” he demurs. “I’d never say something so crass. _Imply_ it, maybe.”

“Well,” she says, sipping her coffee like it hasn’t long gone cold. “You’ve certainly given me a lot to think about.”

“Think on it,” he suggests. “I’ll stop by the _Oleander_ in a couple of days, and then I’ll hear what you have to say.”  He pats her shoulder, like he’s making a friendly goodbye. “See you soon.”

She watches him stroll out through the diner doors before she allows herself a shudder. “Uh, check please?”


	19. Our Style Is Wild

**Ruth**

“So,” Debbie concludes. “That’s the situation. What do we think?”

Bash sits back in his chair, hands steepled almost in prayer, pressed against his mouth. “I don’t know.”

“What are you _talking_ about?” Sam snaps. “Fuck that guy!  _Bullshit_ can he intimidate a whole convention of fucking network executives—”

“Ruth? What do you think?”

She bites her lip. “I think… I think this isn’t just up to us.”

“What do you mean?”

“I think we should put it to a vote.”

“What? This isn’t a fucking democracy. That’s not how this works—”

“Sam, you of all people know what you’re asking people to risk if we say no. This isn’t just about a job, this is people’s _lives_. We can’t make this decision for them.”

“Oh, Christ.” He takes in Debbie’s face, Bash’s, realising he’s lost. True to form, he goes down fighting anyway. “You’re all _idiots_.”

“Look, if it’s such a no brainer a vote will reflect that,” Debbie says.

“ _No_. For a start, they’re all idiots too—”

“Sam!”

He holds her gaze for a second or two, but gives it up.“Fine. Fine. We’ll put it to a fucking vote. Let’s go gather the troops…”

* * *

There is pin-drop silence as she counts the folded scraps of paper into two piles. At least that’s her intention. Accept Nick’s deal or not. Yes or no.

Every piece of paper says No.

She smiles. “Unanimously rejected,” she says.

The room immediately erupts into noise.

“Fuck, yeah!” Sam, over the hubbub. “We’re not being intimidated! We’re the fucking Gorgeous Ladies of Wrestling!”

“Even you?” laughs Stacy.

“Yeah! I took a tire iron to the ribs for this show and I’ve still got the bruises to show for it.  _Fuck_ this guy. We’re gonna take the best demo Las Vegas has ever seen to that convention centre. Right?”

“Right!”

“Good!” He has the attention of the room now. “So, let’s get to fucking work. Three hours. Pair up, group up, however you want to play it. Then back in here ready to show me something that’ll make people lose their goddamn minds. Right?”

“Right!”

She feels the weight of Debbie’s gaze across the room, asking the question. She nods. It’s long since time they were back in the ring together. It’s time. And if that puts her squarely in Nicky’s sights?

So be it.

* * *

**Carmen**

Tammé drops Jenny down onto the mat with a resounding thump.

“Oh!” cries Bash, “And the Pink Princess is down! Can _no one_ stop the Madame?”

“Prin-cess!” Carmen shouts, in the beep-boop sing-song voice of Artraxia the Android.  “I will save you!”

“I can’t believe what I’m seeing! Artraxia, disobeying her programming and climbing into the ring to face her creator!”

Up in the make-shift ring she has a better view of the lightly bemused crowd of men in suits that has gathered to watch the show. “Ahaha!” cackles Tammé. “You fool! You cannot strike me!”

“Neg-a-tive!”

They charge at one another, lock up, throw down.

“Holy shit,” she hears one of the men say, “they’re really _doing_ that?”

“Oh, and the Madame is no match for Artraxia’s strength. Unless… what’s this? A master control node?”

At the press of the big red button Carmen falls to the mat. Tammé reaches down and pulls out a handful of wires from the front of her costume; ripping out the robot’s heart. She _thinks_ she hears a gasp, as she rolls with the kick that puts her out of the ring, dropping out of sight behind curtains.

“That was awesome!” Jenny whispers, hugging her. “Look at them!” She indicates a tiny gap in the drapes, which Carmen puts an eye to.  

The turn from polite confusion to active interest is palpable, the sense of movement from all over the room intensifying. “Let’s hope they managed to get the motorbike in.”

“I think Sam and Ruth went to stage an argument out front, so Cherry and Keith could sneak—"

The double doors at the back of the room crash open, but it’s not Debbie on her motorbike. Three men in ill-fitting suits have stormed through instead.

“Who—?” starts Jenny, but the answer is obvious.

“Show’s over, folks!” The largest of the men starts tearing down their curtains. “Show’s over!”

“What are you doing—?”

“You can’t just—!" Bash grabs the arm of the man trying to remove their _Oleander_ ringside sponsor sign. He responds with a back-handed slap so fierce Bash goes flying.

“We said _show’s over,"_   snarls the third.  

The deep throated thrum of a motorcycle engine cuts through the chaos, so loud Carmen can feel it vibrating in her chest. Debbie, with Cherry and Keith also astride, enters like the Terminator. She squeals to a halt, burning rubber, filling the room with smoke and petrol fumes.

“This is _my_ show,” Debbie, unfurling like a phoenix from the smog. _“I_ say when it’s over.”  

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah,” says Debbie. Shoulder to shoulder with Cherry and Keith. Carmen falls into line alongside, with Jenny, with Melrose. Rhonda is helping Bash to his feet as Arthie, Yo-Yo, Dawn and Stacy also step up. Behind the men Sheila, Reggie and Tammé close ranks, Ruth and Sam entering at a run—

The men take in the change to the odds and bolt. At least that’s the intent. One makes it away, but Jenny sticks out a foot and trips the largest one; Melrose, Arthie and Yo-Yo jumping on his back as he goes down. Tammé actually clothes-lines another, who stumbles back into Reggie’s headlock.

“Carmen? A little help?”

She nods, grabbing an arm and a leg; helping Reggie to actually  _throw_ the goon back out through the doors, as Tammé and Keith do the same with the third.

There is a moment of fizzing silence. As one they turn, to see a room of open-mouthed executives taking in the splintered chaos of what was their display space.

“GLOW, GLOW, that’s the name!” Rhonda, with her knack for theatrical timing.

“Women’s wrestling is our game!” The others take up the refrain, even Sam. “If we play rough, you can’t blame us – our style is wild - and you know you can’t tame us!”

“Is this… real?” she hears one of the suits say, over their ragged chorus.

“I have _no_ idea. Catchy though, isn’t it?”


	20. Casting

**Ruth**

“Will you sit down already?”

“What?”

“Just… sit at the table. Sit.” He checks the eyepiece of the camera again, before their first auditionees arrive. “Why are _you_ so nervous?”

“Because! I remember what it’s like to be on the other side of this table. Trying to… second guess what they want.”

“Second guess _what_? It’s right there on the page. You’ve just got to be that thing. Be it more than anyone else.”

She gives him a long stare. “You realise how subjective that is, right? What one person sees on the page compared to another?”

“It’s not that difficult. You either get it or you don’t. And if you get it, the camera either likes you or it doesn’t. That’s all there is to it.”

“Right, right. Because personal never played into a casting decision…”

“Alright, _yes_. Some people you don’t want to work with no matter how good they are. And others—”

“I don’t… think I want to hear anymore.”

He sighs. “Fine. I’ll just go and open the door then, shall I?” He means it sarcastically, but she takes it at face value, nods; and to both their surprise he does as she says.

The first actress enters, smiling, and a little voice in the back of Ruth’s head is already saying _no_. She carries herself too lightly, too confident—

“Hi, I’m Karen.”

“Hi Karen,” she hears herself replying. “I’m Ruth, and this is Sam. Are you okay to go ahead and read…?”

“Oh, sure, sure.” The girl takes a breath, centring herself, before starting with the first line on the sides: “He’s gone, isn’t he?”

 _No_. The accent’s wrong, the delivery too flirtatious—

She catches Sam’s eye, his _I-told-you-so_ expression unbearably smug, and she scowls. 

* * *

“Well, I think it’s between Susan and Cynthia.”

He rolls his eyes. “No, it isn’t.”

“I-I just think that Susan’s experience _might_ turn out to be—”

“Mm-hm.”

“Why are you doing this?”

“Because you’re lying to yourself. It’s Cynthia. She’s the only one that walked in here and understood the character’s vulnerability.”

“She’s _nineteen_ , Sam. Did she understand it or is she still living it? Whereas Susan—”

“Is a phenomenal actress. Probably the bigger talent. Deserves a great part. But _not_ this one.” He sits back in his seat. “Sound familiar?”

She grits her teeth. “I’m _not_ projecting—"

“Yes, you are. Look, you want to be a director? This is part of it. It’s not about rewarding talent, or drive, or beauty… Or even hard work. It’s about servicing your vision. It’s selfish,” he says, with a shrug.

“Oh, and of course, _you’re_ okay with viewing it like that—”

She’s pushed him a little too far and he stands, scowling. “Whatever, Ruth. You want to waste your time on more call-backs? Be my fucking guest. I’m going home.”

He stomps out, leaving her to grapple with the complex weight of guilt in her chest. She sighs, but at least she’s not going back to an empty apartment out here. Russell will be waiting. She brightens at the thought. 

* * *

“Hey,” he says, finally home after a long day of his own on set. “Did it go well?”

“Yeah. I think we’ve got it.”

He picks her up, spinning her around in a hug, making her smile. “Sounds like we’re celebrating then.”

“Mm-hm,” she agrees, kissing him.

“So, tomorrow, you wanna—?”

She winces. “Tomorrow we’re… supposed to be location scouting with Justine. Assuming Sam’s still talking to me.”

“Oh.”

“I’m sorry. You could come with us? If you’d like?” She can well imagine Sam’s face at this invitation, but she’s feeling belligerent enough right now—

“Uh, pass.”

She blinks. “You don’t wanna hang out?”

“With you? Yes. With Sam? I’m … kinda happy to _not_ be working for that asshole anymore.” She opens her mouth. “It’s okay. I know you’re friends. You don’t have to defend yourself.”

He plays, unthinkingly, with the ring on the chain around her neck. Smiling. Her stomach prickles uncomfortably with something like guilt, at the thought of what he’d say if he knew where the chain had come from.  “Can I at least take you to dinner?” she offers.

“I’d like that,” he says with a grin. “I’d like that… a lot.”

* * *

**Sam**

“Christ, Justine, how much stuff did you bring?” he says, unloading her luggage from the trunk of his car.  

She rolls her eyes at him. “It’s my guitar.”

“Oh, right. So, you’re a musician now too, huh?”

“Maybe. Any chance of some food any time soon?”

“Maybe.”

She smiles, finally hugs him. “It’s good to be back.”

It surprises him still, the knot of some tension he doesn’t know he carries loosening just a little bit. “Yeah. Good to have you back.” He coughs, clearing the catch in his throat. “I was gonna make meatballs. You know. If you’d like.”

“Yeah,” she says, gruff herself to cover any emotion. Genetics has a lot to answer for. “I’d like.”  

* * *

 

 

It’s been coming for a while, but Ruth’s the one who eventually plucks up the courage to say it. “Are we… lost?”

“No.” He’s never known silence to sound _sceptical_ before. “Look, I know where I am. It’s just the road that’s changed, that’s all…” He sighs, knowing he’s not helping his case, and a camera shutter clicks in the back. “Can you _stop_? I’ve not got endless supplies of film for that.”  

Justine sighs dramatically but puts his camera down. “When did you last come out here?”

“I dunno. Five… years ago maybe?” Shit. It’s probably more like eight or nine. “There’s three big pines near the turn.”

Ruth squints. “Like… those ones?”

“Shit!” He turns them sharply, bumping off the asphalt onto a dirt track.

“Sam!” Ruth admonishes, while in the back-seat Justine just laughs.

The road winds up along the side of the hill, more a farm-track than anything else. The trees screen the view until they reach the top where the old house is still standing, a little more weather-beaten than he remembers. It looks out over the lake, flashing gold under today’s sunny skies.

“So,” he says. “What do you think?”

Ruth unclicks her seat belt. “Let’s go find out.”

“There’s the lake down there,” he says, pointlessly, as they wander down the slope. “The woods just to the left. Track probably works for the car scene.”

“What about the house?”

“Pretty sure it’s empty,” he says. “No good for internal shots, but we’ve got other options for that closer to the city anyway.”

She nods, turning to smile at him at last, eyes shining with excitement. “Sam. It’s perfect.”

“Yeah,” he says. Cock-sure arrogant as he can be, to cover the way his stomach clenches when she does that. “Told ya.”

The click of the camera shutter breaks the moment. “Looks good,” Justine calls, shooting the landscape.

“Make sure you get some of the house,” he replies, turning back up the hill.


	21. At The Beach

**Carmen**

“What in the fuck?”

“It’s a row-boat.”

“I can see that,” Melrose replies. “What I’m wondering is what the fuck we’re supposed to _do_ with it.”

“Get in and… row?” she suggests.

“Are you fucking _kidding_ me?”

“Just get in Melrose!” Jenny shouts back. Rhonda has already pushed their boat away from the dock. Yo-Yo and Arthie are several hundred metres away, halfway to the island in the middle of the lake.

“Ugh,” Melrose shudders. “This is ridiculous.” She watches Jenny and Rhonda spin their craft in a circle, shrieking. “There’s no way they’re not going in.”

“Hey, if you want to stay on dry land, stay here,” Carmen says, climbing aboard carefully. “But you’ll never get to see _Copacabana Vegas_ …”

“It better be fucking _magical_.” Melrose takes her seat, and her oar, albeit disdainfully. “So, what, just put it in the water and pull?”

“That’s the general idea—”

She is cut off by a scream and a splash. As predicted, Jenny and Rhonda have tipped their boat and fallen into the lake.

* * *

There is a man waiting for them at the island jetty. Very definitely a man, in every possible language, especially braille. “Hi, ladies,” he says, helping them moor the boat. Melrose pouts, sparkles; offering her hand like a dainty princess to be helped onto the pier. Carmen doesn’t expect him to reach for her too, but he does; his palm is warm and callused under hers. “My name’s Simon. Welcome to the _Copacabana Vegas_ experience.”

“Uh, thanks,” she says. Behind him a man of similarly titanic proportions is launching a boat to go and rescue Jenny and Rhonda.

“Just follow the path to the island bar. Enjoy your time.”

“Oh, we _will_ ,” grins Melrose.

Its pleasant under the trees, the fresh air welcome relief from smoke-filled casinos. She finds she is smiling too, although probably for different reasons than Melrose—

“Carmen!”

She turns, to see Bash waving at her, seated at a table with three more shirtless men who wouldn’t look out of place on the wrestling circuit with her brothers.

She waves back, and he beckons her over to come and join them. “Hi,” she says, smiling shyly.

“Carmen, this is August, Tennessee and Miller. Gentlemen, this is Carmen.”

 “I think you mean Machu—”

“Or Artraxia—”

“Pythagora is _definitely_ her best character.”

Her smile widens. “You guys have seen our show?”

“Only, like, five times,” says August, rolling his eyes.

“The guys are huge wrestling fans,” says Bash, draining his glass. “ _I_ will go and get us some more drinks. Let you catch up with your superfans.” He practically skips off to the bar, seemingly happier than she’s seen in weeks.

Across the clearing she catches the damp Rhonda’s eye, who merely shrugs. Simon is coming over with a towel for her, much to Melrose’s dismay; her own distraction—

“So, Carmen,” says Miller, “did you always want to wrestle?”

* * *

The disco is in full swing under the stars, flaming torches casting a flickering light over the party. Arthie and Yo-Yo are break-dancing, to whooping cheers from the GLOW girls and a few other guests arrived on the island over the course of the afternoon.

A flicker of fire, in the dark of the trees to her left. A familiar profile lighting up a cigarette before strolling away, down towards the island beach. She drains her glass, considering her options, but decides to follow.

He’s down at the water line, kicking stones into the water, finishing his cigarette. “Bash?” she calls.

He startles. “Oh, Carmen. Hey. Just-just fancied a little alone time… you know.” He gives her a grin that doesn’t reach his eyes.  

“I can leave if—?”

“No, no. It’s fine.” He gestures to a convenient fallen tree, a bench overlooking the water. “Are you having fun?”

“Yes,” she says, sitting next to him. “It’s a pretty cool party.”

“Hope it makes up for the other week at _Caesar’s._ ”

“We were happy to help.”

“Well, it worked. Birdie’s been off my case ever since. He takes another drag on his cigarette, clearly wrestling with something. “Eileen… wrote me another letter,” he says eventually, words in a rush. Swipes angrily at his eyes, coughing like he’s inhaled too much smoke to cover a moment of emotion.

She doesn’t know how to reply to that, just nods and looks over the lake, at the lights on the other side. “Are you going to—?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know.”

She nods. “I think you should go and see her.”

“Oh, no—”

“When someone goes,” she continues, ignoring his protestations, “you think that you’ve got to be strong. And if others are sad too, it’s hard. If they break, you’ll break. But in the end, it has to happen. It’s the only way to move forward. When Mom left, I didn’t really speak to Tommy or Kurt for _weeks_. We just used to… well, wrestle. Fight.  Drove Dad crazy. I-I know it’s not exactly the same, but...”

“No, it’s… it’s sad too.” He sniffs. “Florian would have liked this. I wish—” His voice cracks, throat working. She touches a hand to his shoulder, silent support. “Wish he could have seen it.”

She nods; words could never be enough in such a moment.

The laughter of the others across the island carries through the trees and he sniffs, wiping his eyes again. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine.”

He gives her a watery smile. “Come on. We should head back. Before people talk, haha.”

“No one’s going to remember anything by tomorrow morning. We can stay if you’d like.”

He nods. “Just… just for a few minutes.”

They stare out across the water, watching the lights play on the lake.

* * *

Sam is smoking at the front of the apartment building when they arrive home in the grey dawn. He takes in their party attire, streaked with soot from the evening fire, Rhonda’s boots still squelching from a second impromptu dunking on their return trip across the lake, and shakes his head.

“I take it you all had a good weekend?”

Nods and a series of non-committal noises in reply.

His mustache twitches, unable to hide his amusement at their various shades of hangover. “Well, Cherry’s scheduled an extra rehearsal for half eight so—

“You’re _fucking_ kidding—”

“Yeah, of course I’m kidding. Go and get some sleep before I reconsider my good mood and fire you all for breaking curfew.” He shakes his head again, as they trail inside. “See you at one.”


	22. Disruption

**Debbie**

“Hi,” she says, a token greeting for Susan and Mark, but they understand she only has eyes for Randy. She takes him in her arms, pressing her face against him, breathing in his smell. “Oh, it’s so good to see you,” she says, kissing his head. “I swear you’ve grown…”

In an ideal world, the rest of her day would consist of nothing more than this, but reluctantly she reengages with the rest of reality. “You guys ready for a little Vegas?”

“Sure,” says Susan, clearly apprehensive.

“Well, Ray pulled a few strings, so I have a suite for you both at the _Oleander_ …”

“Ray?” queries Mark.

“One of our financial backers.”

 “Oh.”

“If you want to get a taxi over there, just give your names at reception. The show is at six. Don’t, uh, don’t feel you have to—”

“We wouldn’t want to miss it,” Susan says, sounding more genuine this time.

“Well, that’s great. I am going to take Randy and get him settled in my apartment. The sitter will be coming from five…”

“We’ll see you later,” Susan says. “Bye Randy.”

“See you later. Bye-bye.”

His little face clouds as they walk away, clearly upset to see them leave, and her heart shatters into a thousand pieces when he starts to cry.

* * *

“Hey little guy,” says Tammé. “Has he grown some more?”

“I think so.” He is calmer now at least, playing with his stuffed rabbit. “God, I don’t want to do tonight’s show. I just want to stay—”

_Ring-ring_

“Ignore it,” says Tammé.

“Oh, but what if it’s Mark and Susan, and something’s gone wrong at the casino?””

“Why are you so keen on giving them a good time? You don’t owe them anything.”

“I… want to have Randy here more full-time. Now we have the apartments I’ve got the space, I’ve found a sitter.”

Tammé sighs, but she understands. “Guess you better see what they want then.”

She grabs the receiver. “Debbie Eagan.”  

“Hi, Debbie. This is Graham from Inspiration Network.”

“Hi.”

“We saw your little skit last week and we’ve been hearing great things about the floor show. We were wondering if your production team would like to come for a meeting this afternoon, talk about a pilot episode?”

“Of course,” she says, calm on the outside even as her heart leaps. “Where and when?” She notes down the details. “Thanks so much. Yes, we’ll see you very soon.”

She puts down the receiver and remembers not to swear just in time. Randy’s starting to pick up on that sort of thing now, and she can imagine Mark’s reaction if one of his first words is a hearty _fuck_.

“Not Mark?” Tammé hazards.

She takes her son back into her arms, cradling him. “A network interested in making a pilot.”

“A pilot? We’ve already shot a whole season!”

“I know, I know. I guess with the new characters… Oh, God. It’s this afternoon. I better go tell the others. I haven’t got a clue where they even are. If Sam’s even… sober.”

“You’re not going too?”

“I don’t want…” That’s not true. She tries again. “I mean, I just wanted an afternoon with my baby. _Why_ is that so hard?”

Tammé smiles, understanding. “You know I’ll watch him for you while you’re in there.”

“They can handle it without me.”

“Yeah, they probably could, but they didn’t ride into a convention centre on a motorbike to fight off the mafia to keep this show afloat. They rang _you_.”

Debbie sighs. “I suppose so.” She kisses Randy’s head again. “Okay, knowing Ruth she’s probably rehearsing, and she’s most likely to know where Sam is. Let’s try her first…”

* * *

“So,” says Sam, as the four of them step out into the desert heat. “Here we fucking go again. Only this time on even more of a shoe-string.”

“We’ve got the stage sets and costumes,” Ruth counters. “The main issue is filming and editing. And you can shoot.”

“We need at least two operators.” He grits his teeth. “Would Russell maybe…?”

She shakes her head. “I don’t think he… can.” Debbie’s ears prick up at that, just a little. There’s a story there, but she hasn’t time to pry it out just now.  “What about Justine?” Ruth continues.  

Sam looks thoughtful. “Might work.”

“Great,” says Debbie. “Anyway, I have to go now—”

“Is everything okay?”

“Fine, Ruth. Mark and Susan are here. With Randy.”

“Oh, God, I’m sorry, I didn’t—”

“Offer still stands,” says Sam, over Ruth’s fussing.

She smiles. “Thanks, but no thanks. At least for now.”

“What—?” she hears Ruth say, as she accelerates away to try and reclaim what’s left of the day with her son. 

* * *

 

**Sam**

Cancelled, cancelled, cancelled.

The same message scrolls across every screen, every flight in and out affected. Outside thunder rumbles, omnipresent; an immense storm system that rolled in on Saturday and still sits over the city, determined to keep Justine in Sacramento after all.

“Fuck,” he says. But there’s nothing he can do, other than traipse home dejected. “God _dammit_.”

The queue for taxis is immense, just to further improve his mood, and his leather jacket isn’t much good against the rain. Water plasters his hair to his head, dripping down his mustache—

“Sam?”

He turns to find Ruth, similarly drowned-rat soaking. “Hey. What are you—? Don’t—don’t go all the way to the back, come and join me.” She looks awkward about it, mouthing an apology to the old couple standing behind in the queue, but does as he says. “Lover Boy caught up too?”

She nods, sadly. “I’m sorry. I know how much you’ve been looking forward to Justine coming here.”

He shrugs. “It figures. I haven’t told her about the re-pilot yet. Thought it would be nice to ask in person. And I’m supposed to be talking at the _Bloody Horror Expo_ this afternoon. I hate doing those things by myself.”

“I’m sorry,” she says again.

“Ugh. Maybe I’ll just blow it off.”

“But you’re a speaker.”

“So? I bet half of the others were supposed to be on a flight in this morning.”

“Well, all the more reason you should go.”

He shakes his head. “No. Fuck it.”

“Sam…” She rolls her eyes. “Look, I’ll-I’ll come with you.”

“Ah, you don’t have to.”

“Well, it’s not like my day hasn’t been ruined too. I got tickets for an immersive showing of _The Crucible_.”

He can’t quite hide his smile. “Really? Witchcraft and infidelity? That’s what you had lined up for your date?”

“It’s a classic play,” she argues back. “Just because your idea of romance is… is… _Kokonuts_ down at the _Flamingo_.”

“ _Kokonuts_. That’s the best you can do?” He shakes his head. “You wanna stick with that or try again?”

“Shut up.”

He grins to himself, looking away over the parking lot, unaware that beside him she is doing the same.

* * *

“You see? I told you it would still be busy.”

“That doesn’t make me feel better. Now I’m just nervous.”

“About what?”

“Oh, God, about talking about things that happened twenty years ago. You know? No one here is going to care—”

She points to the third young woman in as many minutes dressed as _Gina The Machina_. “Are you not seeing what I see? These are your people. They’re going to love it whatever you say.”

He fumbles a cigarette out, shaking his head. “I doubt it.”

“Mr Sylvia?” He turns, to find an attractive young blonde woman walking towards him with a calculating expression. He’s rather unused to that, these days.

“Oh, um, Sam, please,” he says, his charming best. Ruth sniffs, somewhere between amused and annoyed at his transparency.

“Oh.” She actually blushes, which is cute. “Um, Sam then. I’m Janice. If you could come this way, we’re about ready to begin your panel.”

“Lead on, Janice.”

“And this is…?”

“This is Ruth. My friend.”

“Nice to meet you too. There’s a seat at the front, if you’d like?”

“Thank you,” Ruth says. She catches his eyes for a moment, shaking her head at his cat-that-got-the-cream expression.

“What?” he says in an undertone, as they follow Janice across the hall. “I’m not dead yet."

“No, just predictable.”

“Killjoy,” he laughs. “You don’t see me judging when you’re signing autographs for weirdos at the stage door.”

“That’s different.”

“Oh?”

“They’re…” She tries and fails to find a better word. “…weird.”


	23. The Date

**Ruth**

It’s still raining when they finally step outside, sky dark as a bruise. “Well,” he says, “that went better than expected.”

“You’re always such a pessimist.”

“Hmm. That way I’m never disappointed.”

“Or happy.”

He shrugs. “So, what now?”

She sighs. “I should probably go to the box office and see if they’ll do refunds.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, these weren’t cheap tickets. Add on the flights I’ve taken recently and—”

“No, I just meant… I’m kind of in the mood for witchcraft and infidelity. If, you know, you still wanted to go see?” He risks a soft sort of smile; always a strange sight on his face.

“Really?” In spite of his expression, she’s sceptical in the extreme. “ _You_ want to go to an avant-garde showing of _The Crucible_?”

“Hey, you heard them in there. I’m an _auteur_.”

“More like _enfant terrible_.” She chews her lip for a moment, but she’d be lying if she said she wasn’t interested in his take on things. “Fine, you can come. But don’t be mean about it.”

He puts up his hands in mock surrender. “You know me.”

* * *

“Oh, God, doesn’t it make you _miss_ the theatre, though?”

They are walking back towards the GLOW apartments, her sneakers splashing through unheeded puddles.

He shrugs. “I never did much theatre.”

“Really?”

“I mean, a bit in college—”

“Which you hated—”

“Too pretentious.”

She rolls her eyes. “Why are you always so cynical?”

“Bitter experience. Why are you still so fucking cheerful?”

“Irredeemable optimism.”

“Hah.” He smooths down his mustache. “You hungry?”

“A little.”

“There’s a nice Italian place near here. Wanna grab dinner?”

“Sure.”

It’s a _proper_ Italian place, frequented by actual Italians. Of which, she supposes, Sam is technically one. “What should I go for?” she asks, studying the menu.

“Nothing from that,” he scoffs. The server comes over, old enough to be his mother, and he rattles off a string of words she can’t follow.

“I didn’t know you spoke Italian.”

“Eh, I’m rusty. Since Mom died I don’t really have anyone to speak it with.” He catches her sad expression. “It was twelve years ago, Ruth. Thanks for the concern, but I’m coping with the loss.”

She makes an indignant sort of noise. “Forgive me for being _nice_.”

He shakes his head, but the waitress returns with bread, oil, and a bottle of red wine before he can be further mean. He pours them both a glass.

“To irredeemable optimism.”

She clinks her glass against his. “And bitter experience.”

“Hm,” he smiles, amused. “I guess they do make a pretty good team.”

* * *

She stumbles slightly when they leave; he catches her arm. “Are you _drunk_?”

“Yeah,” she says, happily, “a little. We don’t all have your tolerance.”

“Mm, I was going to suggest another drink, but I don’t want to have to carry you home.”

She scoffs. “I can handle another drink.”  She links her arm through his, unthinking, letting him pilot them through the damp streets.

“Okay, okay.” He brushes her off outside the door of an appropriately seedy-looking joint, tugging his jacket into place. “One drink.”

“One drink,” she agrees, following him over the threshold.

She must be the only woman in the place. Cigarette smoke hangs in a cloud over the bar. On the jukebox Elvis is bemoaning heartbreak, lumpen customers slumped in their stools. She gives him a look.

“What?”

“Nothing! Just… home away from home?”

“Shut up.”

She slides onto a stool as he orders their drinks. “Hi.” The man next to her ignores the friendly greeting, swirling his drink instead. She shrugs, smiling to herself—

“You’re ruining the ambience.”

She takes her beer from his hand. “How?”

“Smiling like that.”

“Well, I’m _happy_. The show has a chance at being back on TV, we’ve cast _Sophie_ , and I’ve… actually had a really nice day.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. You’re good company when you’re not… you know. Spiralling.”

“Huh, thanks.”

“Oh, don’t start.”

“No, no, I’m not…” He takes a swig of his beer. “I had a good day too.”

“Well, good.” She knocks her bottle against his, suddenly not quite able to look at him, scouring the bar for further distraction. “So, are there any regulars here? Any good stories?”

“What - you’re looking for a new character?”

“It’s always good to have inspiration.”

“Well, there is one…” He raises his eyebrows, indicating himself.

“Ha, you’re beyond parody.” She considers things. “Although, you know, maybe we _should_ get you up in the ring. I mean, everyone else has had their turn.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“I’m not, it’d be nice! You know, record you for posterity.”

“What, before I shuffle off this mortal coil?”

“No! God. You’re always so… grouchy.” She grins, amusing herself. “That’s it. The Grouch. That’s your wrestling persona.”

Unimpressed, he drinks some of his beer. “I think _Sesame Street_ already cornered the market on that one.”

“Okay, okay, so what would _you_ pick—?”

“I don’t – I’m not—” He harrumphs to a stop, and sighs deeply. Turns to look at her— _really_ look at her—chin in hand. Something flutters in the region of her stomach under his gaze, much to her disquiet.  “The Poet,” he says.

She’s taken aback. “Really?”

“Don’t—fuck. If you say anything. To _anyone_ —”

“I won’t! I… what kind of poet? Like… a romantic one?”

“God, no.” He gives her a disgusted look. “What do you take me for? Christ. A Beat poet. Obviously.”

“Oh.” She considers this. “I mean, it makes sense. You’re sort of half-way there.”

“Really?”

She laughs. “Yeah. The drugs, the drinking… fighting people.”

“Right. Just the _talent_ I’m missing.”

“Sam…” It’s her turn to shake her head. “Are you fishing for compliments now?”

His mustache twitches, caught out. “Alright, alright.” He fishes out a cigarette. “You finish your beer?”

“Almost.”

He nods. “C’mon. I’ll walk you home.”

* * *

“You know, I’ve never read any Kerouac,” she says, as they cross the threshold back into the apartment complex.

He groans. They’ve reached his front door. “Wait here.” She can hear him rummaging about for something inside. He returns with a battered paperback copy of _On The Road_. “You’ll hate it,” he says, handing it over. At least that’s the intention. For a long moment they’re both holding onto the book, a buffer and a point of connection; staring down at the cover rather than risk looking at each other.

Blue eyes find brown, and her stomach somersaults at his expression. She's close enough to see his adam’s apple bob as he swallows. “Uh—”  

“Good night, Sam,” she chokes out, breaking the spell.

“Night,” he says sadly, as she flees up the stairs.

Her fingers are shaking as she tries to fit her key into the lock. To her horror, the door opens under her hand. “ _Fuck_ —!” she splutters, but it swings back to reveal Russell rather than armed robbers.

“Hey, Ruth,” he says. “I uh, I caught the bus when the plane got cancelled.” He smiles sadly. “Surprise?”


	24. The Girl Who Has It All

**Ruth**

She gapes at him. “ _Fuck_ , I’m sorry,” she hears herself saying; from far, far away. “How long have you been here?”

“Oh, you know. Some… hours. I tried calling.”

“I – I was out.”

“Yeah, I figured.” He sits down on the couch, long fingers tapping on his knees. He has to ask, as much as she’s willing him not to. “…With Sam?”

“Uh, yeah,” she says. Light as she can make it. “He – uh, he was supposed to speak at a horror expo with Justine. Her flight was cancelled too.”

“Ok.” She knows a second of relief. Perhaps that’s as much as she needs to say. “It’s, um, it’s almost midnight.”

Her heart sinks. Of course, it isn’t enough. “Well, we went and got some food. Talked. You know, about the film and the show.”

“The film you went location scouting for last time you were in LA?” He points to the photographs from the day, Justine’s artful black and white shots of the landscape and houses, strewn across her desk.

“Yeah,” she nods, slightly frantic. There’s something accusatory in his gesture, which confuses her. She crosses to the desk, moving the photographs apart to try and understand—

There are two she hasn’t really looked at before; ones that didn’t register because they weren’t helpful when it comes to making the film. A shot of Sam, exasperated in the driver’s seat of his car. She hadn’t realised her amusement at his bad temper was also in the frame. And one of her and Sam in front of the lake, just after she told him the location was _perfect_ , smiling at one another.  

It’s just a photo, she wants to say; the moment was _seconds_ long. Captured, made still, it looks more intimate, more loving—

“It isn’t what this looks like,” she says slowly. Her fingers, instinctively, find the ring on the chain around her neck. She's still holding Sam’s copy of _On The Road_ in her other hand.

He sighs. “Yeah, Ruth. It is.” He holds up his hands in the face of her immediate protest. “Look, look, I’m not saying that you’ve been sleeping with him, or anything like that. Just that things are…” He struggles for the right words. “…emotionally complicated between you.”

“No, no. We just have an understanding, that’s all. You know, for years I’ve been trying to make something of all this, and finally, _finally_ I’ve found someone that’s helping me do that and—”

“Ruth, he’s not helping you. You’re helping _him_. I mean, it’s cute, really, this thing he’s doing where you and Justine work together to make an arty movie that gives him a shot at credibility...”

“It’s not like that! It’s … collaborative.”  

“For as long as it suits him, sure. But the first time you really disagree, I guarantee the toys are going to get thrown out of the pram.”  

She opens and closes her mouth a few times but fundamentally there’s no arguing this point. Sam’s mercurial nature is not in doubt, and the chances of them making it all the way to distribution without at least one blow-up are slim to none. “So, what are you saying?” she tries instead. “That I should just, just, give this all up and come back to LA to try and make a go of things on my own?”

“Well, not on your own… Are you saying you don’t _want_ to come back?”

She puts her face in her hands, trying to hold back sobs threatening to boil out of her chest. “I don’t know!” she manages. “I don’t know…” He looks stricken. “The only thing I’m sure of is I don’t want to lose _you_.”   

“I don’t want to lose you, either,” he says, voice wobbling. He comes to hug her, the weight and warmth of him somehow reassuring and overwhelming at the same time. It’s not as simple as he’s making it sound. Years of failure aren’t just the result of the cards being unfairly stacked against her, and her relationship with Sam—just like her relationship with Debbie—isn’t as one-sided as he seems to see them. “Look,” he continues, “you’ve just got to… work out what _you_ really want.”

She nods, against his chest, tears leaking out. Because if she’s honest what she wants is what she _has_ right now. GLOW, and film-making, and Russell in the in-between. She’s not at all sure why that no longer seems to be an option. “Do I… do I have to decide right now?”

“No,” he says, sniffing. “You can – you can take some time.”

She sobs into his jumper. “It feels like you’re breaking up with me—”

“It’s not… It doesn’t have to be that.” He kisses her, all salt and snot, neither of them caring. “It’s up to you, Ruth. It’s all up to you.”

* * *

**Debbie**

“Does that taste nice? Does it taste nice?”

She is spooning mashed banana into Randy at the diner, waiting on the morning’s carbohydrate load, when Ruth steps through the door. Distracted and clearly miserable. For a moment Debbie considers saying nothing, letting her walk out again without disrupting breakfast—  

“Ruth?”

It turns out she’s a better friend than she feared.

Her head snaps up, a watery smile at the sight of them both. “Hey,” she says, coming over. “Hi Randy.” Something tightens in her face as she watches him smack his plastic spoon against the high-chair. “Did you—?”

Debbie nods. “Change to the custody agreement. Randy’s going to be here _lots_ more. Aren’t you?”

“Ma-ma-ma,” he agrees, splattering banana with each slap of his spoon.   

“Is that… was that a _word_?” Ruth beams.

“Babble.”

“No, that was—that was _Mama_. I heard it.”

“Well, maybe.” It’s almost a thing too good to be true, strange as that sounds, and she can’t let herself think about it yet. What if it’s not _Mama_ at all but _Mark_? Instead she casts a shrewd eye over her friend. “Ruth, are you okay?”

“Um, Russell… just left,” she squirms.   

“Oh.” This level of angst on parting, months into their relationship, seems a little extreme. But it is Ruth, after all. “Well, you’ll see each other again soon, right?” she says, bracingly.

“I don’t know.”

“What?”

Ruth turns her eyes up, sadder than she’s seen in a long, long time. “He wants me to, um, think about what I want.”

“The long-distance thing?” She indicates the chair opposite, and Ruth sits down.

“That. And-and—” Words seem to be stuck in her throat. “All of _this_ , you know? GLOW, and Justine’s film…” There are other words, left hanging in the air; words that probably sound a lot like ‘Debbie’ and ‘Sam’.

Debbie nods, letting out a breath. “This having-it-all thing we’re meant to aim for is so fucked up, right?”

“I thought I _had_ it. This… _this_ feels like having it all. To me.”

There are things she could say, in reply. About how having-it-all is sometimes really having your cake and eating it, and eventually other people get tired of that. About how simultaneously terrifying and wonderful motherhood has been, and even though her life right now is _so far_ from her imagined perfect, she wouldn’t change it for anything. That happiness is something to be worked at, built, rather than a passive by product of being; a lesson she wishes she’d learnt sooner.

“Russell seems like an actual decent guy,” is what she actually says. “I think he wants you to be happy… and he’s hoping that being happy means being with him, and working in the same city, and maybe with less shitty, crazy… _angry_ people. That you can get married and have a family. Nice, normal things. But if that’s not what’s going to make _you_ happy, Ruth, you’ve just got to be honest with him about it. You know? I spent a long time pretending decisions that looked good on paper were the right decisions. They weren’t. I don't want to see you do that too.”

Ruth nods, dissolving into tears by inches. “Debbie, I—"

“It’s okay,” she says, sliding around the table to embrace her friend. “It’s all going to be okay.”


	25. Chemistry

**Sam**

“Okay, _so,_ ” he says, quickly sketching a plan of the set. “Establishing shot on Jenny from _here_.”

“In the ceiling?”

“There’s a lighting gantry. I’ll do it.”

Justine folds her arms. “I’m lighter than you are.”

“This isn’t up for fucking debate. I’m not risking you falling out of the roof, there’s too much you’ve got to do. And, you know, thanks.” He tears off the roll of paper, onto the next sketch. “I need you down on the floor, mobile. Tracking her up on to the stage. Then—”

“Woah, wait, how’re you going to get down in time to be set up on stage for _that_?”

“I can’t. But it’s the same show every day, so it doesn’t matter. We don’t have to get it all in one take this time—oh, hi, Ruth.”

“Hey,” she says, entering the box. “Sorry I’m late.”

“It’s fine. Uh, establishing shot on that sheet, second shot on this. You’re all caught up.” He smiles without actually looking at her. He’s spent a lot of the last week not actually looking at her. “Next, I want a shot of the rotor of the time machine. It’s a good prop, looks fancy.”

“Stage right is going to give you the clearest view,” Ruth suggests.

“Right. Good point.” Justine is frowning now, looking back and forth between the two of them. He ignores her. “From stage right, then.”

“You want close ups on the Cavewomen?”

He considers it. “Could work. Justine can do them with the handheld.”

“Won’t you see me on stage?”  

“We can do a run without an audience.”

“Make sense,” Ruth agrees stolidly.  

“Okay, stop!” snaps Justine. “Did you guys have another fight or something?”

“ _No_ —”

“We’re not fighting—” she says, overlapping.

For the first time in a week she catches his eye and his stomach lurches horribly, like he’s about to be sick. Fucking great.

“Well, you’re being _majorly_ weird. And this show is going to suck balls if you just agree with each other the whole time.”

“We agree on lots of—”

“No, you don’t, and that’s what makes your stuff together good. Every shot’s either fucking essential or fought over.” She shakes her head. “I’m going to get a soda. Shut the door, scream at each if you have to, but sort it out.”

They both flinch as she slams the door shut.

“I’m not mad at you,” he says, after five seconds of horribly awkward silence. “Really.”

“I know. I’m not angry with you either.”  

He grimaces, but there’s no avoiding the enormous elephant in the room. “Look… I’m sorry. The other night. I shouldn’t have—”

“It wasn’t just you.”

He blinks. This is honesty with a vengeance. “I, uh, it’s all under control, you know? And then I do something stupid like spend time with you.”

She nods. “Yeah. I know.” She makes a face, almost like a wince, and he knows whatever comes next is going to hurt like hell. “Russell wants me to move back to LA.”

“Oh,” he manages, over the blood roaring in his ears. “Well, if that’s what you want—”

“It’s _not!_  I was happy with things as they are! It was fun and—and _manageable_.”

Even in his state of emotional whiplash he can’t let that comment pass. “Manageable? Christ, Ruth. It’s being in love. Manageable shouldn’t come into it.”

“Not everyone’s an impulsive hedonist, Sam! And now I don’t know what’s going to happen. If I’ll ever… even see him again.”

“Oh, don’t be so melodramatic. If you want to, you will.”

“No, he’s… been pretty clear. I need to figure out my emotional complications and make a decision.”

“What the fuck are emotional complications?” She gives him a dirty look and the penny drops. “Oh.”

“Yeah.”

He comes to sit next to her, so far out of his comfort zone he couldn’t find his way back with a map; curling the fingers of one hand around hers. “Look,” he says, “maybe… maybe we’ve been going about this all the wrong way.”

“About _what_?”

“You and me,” he says, silence sucking at his words. “I mean, we’re not idiots. We both know it could never work. You’re… neurotic. Uptight.” He risks looking at her again, and she catches his smile.

“You’re abrasive and … so _loud_ —”

“You dress like you’ve raided the reject bin from a Sunday School rummage sale—”

She snorts, pulling her hand away. “That’s rich, coming from Mister Fall Catalogue 1972.”

“You might be the most annoying woman I’ve ever spent time with.”

They’re both on their feet now, face to face.

“You’re _definitely_ the most irritating man I’ve ever met.”

“So,” he says, “this… feeling...” Like the air is electric, his heart thumping painfully in his chest. “It’s just chemical. Right?”   

“Right!”

“And you don’t want to make another stupid mistake, and I don’t want to admit to such a shocking lapse of taste.” She makes an outraged squeak in response to that, but he’s warming to his material. “We’ve made it forbidden fruit! And the one thing we _do_ have in common is we don’t like no for an answer. If someone tells me I can’t have something, I’ll go out of my fucking way to prove them wrong. And you… I mean, I fired you on day two and now you’re my co-director.”

“So, what, we should just have sex to get it out of the _way_?” she says, indignant.

“Maybe! Scratch the itch, and then it’s done and we can focus on the important stuff.”

“Scratch the _itch_? Well, when you make it sound _that_ appealing…”

He laughs. “What, you’re not feeling a burning sexual tension between us anymore?”

“No, funnily enough.”

 “Well, I guess all we needed to do was have an honest conversation about it, then.”

“Maybe…” She folds her arms, shaking her head. “You’re wrong about the opening shot.”

“No, I’m _not_ —”

“You want to establish Jenny as the character first, _then_ show her lost. It should open on her face.”  

He opens his mouth, closes it again. But he knows she’s right. “… Fuck.”

Justine throws open the door on that moment, looking triumphant. “Are we back?”

“Yeah,” he says, as Ruth nods. “We’re back.”


	26. Heroes

**Debbie**

She slips into the back of the editing box where Sam, Justine and Ruth are working on the final cut. Ruth is sitting at the back of the room, while father and daughter argue back and forth.

“Is it… done?”

“For all intents and purposes,” Ruth affirms.  

“Then what are they—?”

“I don’t know. I think this might just be fun for them.”

Debbie coughs. And coughs again, louder, when they ignore her the first time.

“ _What_?” Sam and Justine say together.

She goes poker-faced. “Are you finished?”

“Yes,” says Sam, firmly, ignoring Justine’s mutinous look. “Just gotta rewind.”

“We’re all going to watch it first. Before we send it to the network.”

“What? No, we’re _not_ —”

“Yes, Sam, we are,” says Ruth firmly. “We all think it’s a good idea. Whatever happens, we deserve to see the show this way.”

He shakes his head, but offers no further resistance. The tape clicks and whirrs, thunking to a stop. “Okay.” He ejects it, holding it out to them both.

It’s an effort of will not to grab it from him, but she manages. “You should take it,” she says, magnanimous.

“Oh, no. _You_ should—” starts Ruth.

“Jesus Christ,” says Sam, walking out with it.

The others are waiting on the front row of the rehearsal room, sharing popcorn and noise. For once, it makes Debbie smile rather than want to rend her clothes. She takes a seat next to Tammé, Ruth and Justine filling in the row next to her, while Sam sets up the projector.

Static snows for a moment, causing an instant hush. Sam knocks the lights down and finds his place next to Justine.

“Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls,” says the Bash on screen, and the room actually _shakes_ with the sound of their spontaneous, enormous cheer. “Welcome! To the fabulous world… of GLOW!”

* * *

**Ruth**  

It’s not exactly a wrap party, not quite an end of season event. Really, it’s just the Sunday evening after their final show of the week, a whole glorious day of free time between them and the next. But it _feels_ more than that, the tape now on its way to the Inspiration Network; anticipation in the air.

She sees him slip in at the back of the clubroom, scowl across the dancefloor; sigh—

“Did Justine get off okay?” she calls, before he can turn and slip away.

“Yeah,” he shouts back over the noise. “Flight left right on time.” She pats his shoulder sympathy, earning herself a disgruntled look. “I’ll be fine.”

“I know.” She holds his gaze for a moment; softening into something that’s not angry for once; not sad. Just present. In the moment together with her.

The music changes, out on the floor, a familiar guitar riff.

_I… I will be King… And you. You will be Queen._

“You wanna dance?” she hears herself ask.

“Oh,” he says, cautious. Last time they tried something like this it didn’t exactly go the way he hoped, she supposes. “I don’t dance. Not anymore.”

“That’s not how Debbie tells it…” she smiles.

He shakes his head, but his own mouth is turning up at the corners. “Fucking Debbie.”

He holds out his hand. She takes it and leads him onto the dancefloor.

_We can beat them. Just for one day._

His face twitches as the girls whoop and cheer at his joining-in, never quite able to _believe_ that someone is happy to see him. Bash puts an arm around his shoulders, and she lets go of his hand, letting him be drawn into the group. _Everyone_ is here now, moving together, and she might just feel the happiest she has in her whole life—

 _And you, you can be mean_ _…_

She catches his eye again, on that most appropriate of lyrics. “Help me,” he mouths, being bounced around now by Bash _and_ Keith, and she laughs out loud; shaking her head.

 _Cos we’re lovers. And that is a fact_ _—_

She breaks their stare on those words, looking down at her feet instead; face curiously hot. Maybe their moment of honesty in the editing box hasn’t been _quite_ enough to kill the strange spark of whatever it is between them. But Jenny’s hand has clamped around hers; she’s being dragged into the middle of the circle, and whatever it is, it can wait.

Right now is for all of them.

 _We can be heroes. Forever and ever. What you say?_  

* * *

**Sam**

_Knock-knock_.

He takes the cigarette out of his mouth. “It’s open!” he yells.

“Hi,” she says, giving him a weirdly awkward wave as she enters the spare room of his apartment. “I wanted to return this—”

 _On The Road._ He nods. “What did you think?” She takes a breath, brow creasing, and he waves a hand. “Never mind. I rescind the question.”

“I preferred _The Curious Case of Benjamin Button_ ,” she says instead. “Are you busy?”

“Uh, a little.” He waves his hand at the scattered photographs and storyboard sketches, a cinematographer’s ephemera.

“What’s _that_?” She points at the leather contraption, like a strange pair of braces, he’s in the middle of re-stitching.

“Camera harness,” he explains, “for Justine. Needs a little adjustment.”

“It was yours?”

“Yeah. From when I first started out. She’s even skinnier than I was back then.”  He huffs. “Don’t… don’t say _anything_.”

“I’m not going to—”

“You already _are_ —”

“It’s just… it’s very _sweet_ —”

“You see? There you go.”

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

“No, you’re not.” He scowls. “Want a coffee?”

“Sure.”

She follows him into the kitchen, oblivious to his get-back stare. “We need to get the insurance sorted for principal photography, by the way.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know.” He busies himself with the drinks to avoid looking at her. “I just wasn’t sure if I needed to find a new director…”

He risks looking up. She’s giving him that blazing stare, the kind that nails him to the wall. “I’m not quitting.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

“Good,” he manages. He coughs. “Well. If you’ve not got other afternoon plans… We could put a lot of pre-production to bed?”

Her mouth twitches, presumably at his awkward phrasing, but she nods nonetheless. “I’d like that.”


	27. Breakfast At Tiffany's

**Ruth**

“You’re not doing it right,” he opines, trying to take the wooden spoon from her.

She twitches it out of his reach. “What? I’m stirring it.”

“Counter-clockwise. Counter.”

“How can it know? It’s tomato sauce.”

“It makes a difference, it makes a…” He trails off in the face of her incredulous look, putting his hands on his hips. The stern face might carry more weight if he wasn’t wearing an apron. He sighs. “Fine. Just, stir the fucking sauce otherwise it’s going to burn.”

She does as he says, laughing to herself, taking another sip of her wine. “What comes next?”

“Nothing for you, can’t-fucking-take-direction…”

“It’s _dinner_ , not a dramatic production.”

“Mm, I’m guessing you didn’t grow up around too many Italian families…”

She relinquishes the spoon, rolling her eyes. “Fine.” She watches him drain the pasta. “I still think there’s something not quite right about the flashback sequence, you know?”

“Really? I had no idea. I wasn’t listening the three hundred other times you mentioned it.” He ladles out meatballs. “Dinner first.”

* * *

It’s late and they’re well into a second bottle of wine, which is probably why watching a film together seems like a sensible thing to do; in spite of the hour. 

“Okay, okay, two options,” he says, as she tucks her feet under herself on the sofa. “Number one…”  He puts a video down on the coffee table, making a ‘ta-dah’ kind of face. _Night of the Living Dead._ Predictably Sam, if nothing else.

She puts her head on one side. “And number two…?”

 _Breakfast At Tiffany’s._ It’s a no brainer. He sighs at her expression. “Yeah, I figured.”

The strains of _Moon River_ play as he sits back down next to her.

“So, how many times have you seen this?”

“Sshh,” she admonishes.  

* * *

_Two drifters, off to see the world…_

She swallows the lump in her throat as Holly and Paul embrace on screen. He’ll only tease her if he sees tears at their happy ending—

“Are you crying?”

“No,” she sniffs.

"Yes, you are.”

“I’m _not_ ,” she protests, giving him a glare, even as a tear spills onto her cheek.

“Mm-hm.” He wipes it away with his thumb, unthinking, before the causal intimacy of the moment strikes them both. His grin fades into a frown and he closes his eyes briefly. “I, um—"

She kisses him.

It doesn’t play out the way she expects; he freezes in place rather than reciprocates, until she starts to withdraw. _Then_ he moves, returning something butterfly soft, almost chaste, nose bumping against hers.

He’s terrified, she realises. Of what, she can’t quite fathom, but at least he’s avoiding his usual strategies of shouting at someone or self-destructing until the fear goes away.

She tries again; softer, slower, until his mouth opens under hers and suddenly everything seems to _rush_ up to speed. He wrenches his glasses off, making her smile and her stomach swoop in the same moment, and pulls her into his lap.

She isn’t sure how long they spend entwined, kissing fiercely. The normal flow of time has stuttered and stopped, measured instead in the hitch of breath; the greedy pull of hands and press of bodies. The aching pang between her legs, and increasing awareness of his arousal pressing against his jeans—

“Bedroom?” she says, against his mouth.

“Mh-hm.”

He kisses her again, and again, until she stands and practically drags him upright by his shirt. Which, frankly, is just in the way. Her fingers fumble on the buttons, but he’s got the general idea and pulls the whole thing over his head. Discards it somewhere on the living room floor. Her sweater follows suite somewhere around the bedroom door.

And they’re naked. On his bed. He seems to have a better sense of how things should go now at least, unrolling a condom—

She’s very clearly back in her own skin for a moment, breathless; buzzed. His face without those aviator frames, the shape of his shoulders without his shirt and the still-fading bruises of his broken ribs — there’s so much that’s new here, _unimagined_ even. It’s overwhelming.

He gives her an anxious sort of look, which she does recognise. Relieved to find him, the Sam she knows in amongst the stranger, she kisses him again. Lets him lay her down by inches, breath ragged against her neck as he nudges her legs apart with his knees. She arches into him, making him groan, and he pushes inside. For a while everything is thrusting motion and friction, soft gasps and moans. Until the last vestiges of his self-control dissolve and he’s fucking her frantically; rhythm starting to fray.

“Oh, _fuck_ ,” he says as he comes. A phrase he must use fifty times a day. And that, of all things, is what tips her over the edge, shuddering into her own climax.

They lie tangled together for a long moment afterwards, breathless and spent. Eventually he rolls onto his back.

“You're quiet," he says. "You okay?”

“Yeah,” she says, running a hand through her hair almost dreamily. “…I know how to fix the flashback sequence.”

He blinks. “That’s, um. That’s what you’re thinking about right now?”

“Yeah,” she breathes. “It shouldn’t be chronological. It needs to be intercut with life _after_ Charlie’s injury—”

“Hang on, hang on,” he says, trying to surreptitiously remove a condom with one hand and rummage in his bedside table with the other. “Let me just…” He produces a notepad and pencil; catches her expression. “What? You’re telling me you don’t wake up with ideas in the middle of the night?”

“No, no, I do…”

“Right,” he says, opening to a clean page. “Go…”

* * *

**Sam**

Something wakes them both around three in the morning. Maybe it’s a passing car, or some other noise in the apartment block. Maybe it’s just the fact there’s another warm body in a usually empty bed. Whatever it is, she turns over to face him, smiling sleepily. Touches a hand to his chest.

It’s like striking a match; a rush of blood to his cock; the desperate need to fuck her all over again—

She moves at the same time he does, making the kiss clumsy, lip catching her teeth. He doesn’t care. There’s a moment of uncertainty over who’s going where. It ends in an almost wrestling-like shove of his body down onto the mattress. She straddles him, and that’s the end of conscious thought for a while.

* * *

He opens his eyes. It’s daylight. Ruth is still fast asleep, mouth open, snoring lightly. The fact he finds this endearing is warning sign enough that his _lets-just-scratch-the-itch_ strategy is already a catastrophic failure.

Perhaps she feels the weight of his stare. She closes her mouth, swallows, blinking awake. “Hey.”

“Hey. How’d you feel about breakfast?”

“Mm, positive,” she returns, a smile quirking on her face. She strokes flat some errant tuft of his hair that has clearly amused her, and he shivers involuntarily—

 _Ring-ring_.

They both stare at the ‘phone for a stupefied second. “It’s probably Justine,” he says, “letting me know how much school sucks in comparison to film-making.”

“You should answer."

He has to lean over her to pick up the receiver, but she doesn't seem to mind. “Hey, this is Sam.” 

“Hi Sam,” says an unfamiliar voice. Male, mid-western. Loud enough that Ruth can hear it too, stiffening under him. “This is Jim Lowry from Inspiration. We _loved_ the tape.”

“Oh, hey, Jim. Glad to hear that,” he says.

“We want to have a meeting with your production team and discuss options for a series. Are you free today? Say two o’clock?”

“We’ll be there. Same address as where I sent the tape?”

“That’s the one. Looking forward to meeting you in person.”

“Yeah, me too. Bye Jim.” He hangs up.

“Inspiration Network?” she checks.

“They want to meet at two.” He’s grinning, a mirror to her excited smile.

“I mean,” she says, “of course they do. The show’s brilliant. Who wouldn’t want that on TV every week? Oh, _God_. We’re going to have so much new material to write. New sets. Costumes!”  

“Yup.”

And this, he doesn’t say; this brief firework of a thing to be consigned to history. Curiosity satisfied. Just a one-time-thing. He’s _good_ at that. Right?

“I guess we should—” she starts.

“Yeah, we probably—oh, _fuck_ —” Her mouth has found his again. Whatever it is they should be doing, it definitely isn’t _this_.

“This is a bad idea,” she gasps.

“Terrible,” he agrees, between kisses. “We should… stop…”

“Yeah,” she agrees. “—Don’t.”

And they’re the Titanic steaming straight towards an iceberg. There’s no way this can work, no way at all. They’re risking GLOW, the film, their friendship. Her chance of a remotely normal happy ending with an actual decent human being—

“Stay with me,” she says in his ear. She means here, in this moment, he’s sure. Stop spiralling out into dread and attend to the business at hand of fucking her breathless.

But just for a moment he lets himself pretend it means something more. _I’ll be Alma, you be Hitch,_ says her voice in head. And – just for a moment – everything feels like it might be okay.


End file.
